Blood Circles: Voodoo Doll
by zenfrodo
Summary: 1970s show. A serial killer hunts the Mardi Gras - an occult sociopath torturing & slaughtering innocents to raise demonic power. Joining forces with the shadowy Association, the Hardy Boys pit themselves against the world of voodoo, evil magic, & psychic warfare to stop him - only to discover that the killer has lured them into his own deadly trap...
1. Prologue

**_A/N: This tale started as an anything-goes tale for National Novel Writing Month, a mash-up of two different fandoms (the other for a Rockband That Shall Remain Nameless due to FanFicNet's rules). Because of this, the story reads a bit split-personality at first. This posting is also a re-write/edit to correct this tale's backstory as established by my other stories, correct the time frame & year (per the show, Voodoo Doll takes place in '78: the initial mistake was mine), and to clean up other matters.  
><em>**

**_The characters of Frank & Joe Hardy, their dad Fenton and Aunt Gertrude and the town of Bayport belong to Simon & Schuster. Those characters as portrayed here are from the 1970s TV show, "The Hardy Boys Nancy Drew Mysteries", created by Glen A. Larson. This tale is based on the episode "Voodoo Doll", original teleplay written by Stephen Ujlaki, Mark Griffiths, Michael Sloan & Christopher Crowe; the characters of Orrin Thatcher, Doctor Duvee (Dove), Claire, & Josette are from that episode, though the re-interpretation of them is my own. _**  
><strong><em>With that in mind, all the other characters &amp; situations not mentioned or referenced above are my own creations &amp; fault. Be patient - this is all set up for an ongoing series!<em>**

**__Please note: the show sets Bayport in MA, and that's what I run with. Here, the brothers are a bit older, 18 & 19. Any other differences, please attribute them to the show; I try to reconcile blue-spine canon with the show when I can, but the show will trump the books._  
><em>**

**_Also, the original episode is extremely disrespectful & inaccurate concerning Voodoo as it is practiced in New Orleans; the Hardys' attitude depicted here is directly from the episode. I've tried to correct matters, and I gratefully acknowledge Jerry Gandolfo of The Voodoo Museum in New Orleans for his assistance with terminology, religion, and culture.  
><em>**

**_# # #_**

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><p><em>1978: New Orleans, LA<em>

Josette sat fidgeting in the back corner of the cafe — a small hole-in-the-wall at the back of an alley. Nothing unusual for New Orleans, but on stage, oh, on stage…

She watched the man, this Doctor Duveé, go through his gimmicky voodoo act, silk cloths into doves, fire breathing, nothing special, nothing that a dozen other gimmicky stage magicians weren't doing in similar back-alley bars. But her sister had worked here. Her sister had written, a glowing, raving account of what she was learning from a 'doctor' she had met in this bar, and then nothing. Nothing, but this was the only trail she had.

"And now," the Doctor said, "the most feared of all…" He held up a large voodoo doll, the cheap souvenir kind sold by the thousands throughout the French Quarter; with a shout and a spurt of flame from the braziers behind him, he stabbed a pin through the doll's head.

A scream rang through the bar. Pain lanced through Josette's temples — blinding, incapacitating. She staggered up, only to feel hands on her, soft gentle hands leading her away, and a familiar voice telling her not to worry, she'd be taken care of, others laughing — just part of the show. She couldn't react to that voice; she wanted to, she wanted to ask what was going on — but she couldn't move, couldn't fight, as if a soft blanket enveloped her limbs despite the blinding pain in her head…

…and then she knew nothing, only blackness.


	2. The Band

_Late January 1978: San Francisco, CA_

_Fog, rain, cold. _It never changed, ever, in San Francisco, especially in late January, always one of the three or all three at once. Vão — short for _don't-call-me-Estevão — _Carvalo shivered as he trudged up the stairs of Cy Goldberg's business office. The old painted-lady house in the middle of the city was pretty enough, but all the windows and brick made the place even chillier than the outside. He shoved the door open, waved himself past the receptionist and into the inner waiting room.

As usual, Dylan had beaten him there, and, surprisingly, the new guy, Nathaniel Tanner. Dylan Jones was shaggy, rubbery, golden, Nathaniel looking like a sullen southern Cal surfer dude, though he'd moved from L.A. last year, both of them stark contrast to Vão's dark Portuguese looks. Vão opened his mouth to say hi, then shut it. The weekend press party had turned into a major embarrassment for him and Nathaniel — Vão had gotten drunk and said more than he'd intended about his new bandmate, none of it complimentary, all of it insulting. The media people had laughed, and he'd thought everyone was only taking it as a joke, until the band's manager, Cy, hauled him out back for a major shout-down.

Nathaniel was pointedly not looking at Vão, and Vão caught just the bare edge of the disgust and hurt. Fine. Vão could deal with that. He clenched down on his shields, the comforting — and necessary — mental walls between him and the rest of the world. They'd been giving him problems for the last week or so, and the thought of himself facing the whole of San Francisco — let alone the band — without them was terrifying.

The TV was on, afternoon news; good. Distraction worked somewhat, to help him ignore his Empathic Gift, which tended to act up with no warning. Vão sprawled on the floor next to Dylan. "Anything important?"

Dylan slanted a grin at him. "Nope. They haven't mentioned you once."

Vão grinned back. Dylan was easier to deal with; the bassist's laid-back joker front mostly ran beneath the surface, too. Vão pushed himself back up to grab a Coke from the cooler. He stood over Dylan, watching the scrawl of images: Muni workers on strike again, gas prices, Middle East, recession, depression, blah blah blah.

The door burst open, slamming against the inner wall and making everyone jump — only Rafe Hollen, their lead guitarist, a lean, muscled half-_chicano, _half-Black street-rat. Their drummer — Ian Parsons, bald and quiet — strolled in casually behind him.

"Jesus, Hollen, trying to trigger another quake?" Dylan drawled.

"That was outside." A grin played around Ian's mouth. "He nearly ran down a cop on that new Harley of his."

Rafe gave Vão a brief glare. "Cy in yet?" he said, to the room.

"A while ago," Nathaniel said, not looking away from the TV. "Doing some secret stuff in the inner sanctum."

"Reading Star Trek porn is hardly secret," Dylan said. There was a shocked pause, followed by Rafe and Ian's combined burst of laughter, Nathaniel's uncertain grin, Vão's snort.

"I heard that." Cy Goldberg stood in the inner doorway — he was a round bearded apple of a man. "And anything's better than listening to your bass playing, Dylan. Now get your asses in here. We got stuff to get settled.""

Dylan mouthed a long, silent "Oooooooo", caught Vão's eye, grinned.

"Star Trek porn versus your bass playing," Ian said, dead-pan, to Dylan. "Yeah. He's got a point." Dylan mimed a punch, which Ian ducked, then pushed to his feet.

Still grinning, Vão turned from the TV, then stopped, his attention caught. "Did they say New Orleans?"

"Yeah," Nathaniel said in passing, un-caring, "the murders down there. There's been another one."

"_Murders?"_ Vão heard the crack in his voice, hated himself for it. They were supposed to be playing a show there, in the middle of Mardi Gras. They hadn't even finished recording the new album, and Cy was already making them play a show — "a break," he called it, "a great chance at Mardi Gras, let you guys get crazy for once." Not on the actual Fat Tuesday, though. Even Cy wasn't publicity-hungry enough to compete with _that_, which meant that the band could enjoy the party, for a change.

Until this, anyway. Everyone had stopped, looking at him.

"Just the usual big time Satanic stuff, no big deal," Dylan said. "Cow skulls, stinky candles, backwards Led Zep albums, voodoo dolls, dead bodies, you name it. Been six, so far."

"Seven." Nathaniel nodded at the screen. "They're scared it's going to keep folks away from Mardi Gras."

Rafe had gone still, then pushed past Dylan to stand next to Vão and stare at the TV screen. "Kris went down there," Rafe said quietly, to Vão. "With Joshua."

The usual hurricane of energy and emotion that surrounded the guitarist had gone decidedly spiky. Vão dared it; he gripped a tense hand on Rafe's shoulder. The last tour, this past year, something had changed, something with Kris, something with him, something with Rafe. He wasn't sure what. He wasn't sure why. But it'd gotten more raw and more open than usual, and he and Rafe had been walking on eggshells around each other, uncertain and wondering…

"You did say Kris, right?" Ian said. "Hawk and Josh? They of the 'we'll kick your demonic murderer butts all the way to Ohio and leave you there' fame?"

"I feel sorry for the killer," Dylan said.

That broke the tension. Vão snorted, felt Rafe's shoulder relax. "Oh, yeah," Rafe said, grinning, "right." But Vão couldn't stop staring at the TV: police stumped, no clues, the brutality of the murders, all young, men, women…

"Someone I should know here?" Nathaniel said.

"Just our bodyguards," Dylan said. "I hope, anyway." He raised an eyebrow towards Cy, who still stood with ill-concealed impatience in the doorway.

"Well, if you can tear yourselves away from the TV and get in here," Cy said. "You too, Carvalo. You can catch up to your press later."

Vão clenched back the curse he wanted to spit in Cy's direction. Cy had been getting more and more irritable lately, all of it aimed at Vão. Rafe wasn't so controlled, though he only muttered under his breath. Vão pulled himself away from the TV, followed Rafe past Cy. Cy pulled the door shut behind them, shoved both Rafe and Vão a little too hard through the mail room after the others. Two of the fan club people, Melissa and Jack, sat in a pile of letters, studiously ignoring the band save for friendly nods.

"Cy," Melissa said, an edge to her voice and a spike of fear that made it through Vão's shields. He stopped; Cy went over to look at what she held, and there was another sudden spike and a muffled hiss of breath. His bandmates had gone on. Vão edged over, just enough to see what Mel held — a photo of some kind, torn up?

"No, you don't." Cy pushed Vão away.

Vão resisted. "I can look!"

"That," Cy said, over top of him, "is what we pay these guys for. _You _are not paid to deal with lunatic fan mail. You, singer. Them, mail jockeys. Now move it before I get Hollen out here to kick your ass for you."

Vão huffed himself up, then decided against it, allowed Cy to push him into the meeting room; Vão would sweet-talk Mel later. He could feel Rafe's gaze on him, but Vão only dropped into the chair next to the guitarist with a graceless sprawl.

"To answer your question," Cy said to Dylan, "yeah, the Center group'll be guarding us in New Orleans. Mostly, anyway. Their regular team. Usual terms. So you idiots can get that worry off your minds. Or off other parts, some of you."

"Mostly?" Vão said.

Cy gave him a _look._ "Yeah, mostly. Believe it or not, there's more important things than you, Carvalo. That's what Mar Mountainhawk said, so stop glaring at me. At least enough of their folk to cover the Warehouse — I'll be hiring others for your personal bodyguards."

Nathaniel looked confused. "This is just over bodyguards? Is there something I should know about here?"

Vão and Rafe exchanged looks. They hadn't really let Nathaniel in on everything, not yet.

"I_ am_ part of the band, y'know," Nathaniel said stiffly. "Right? Or you guys feel like he does?" That last, with a lift of his chin towards Vão.

"Tanner," Cy said, then glared at Vão until Vão shut his mouth. "Settle it, both of you."

"I'm not the one who un-settled it," Nathaniel snapped.

"So level with us, Tanner," Rafe broke in, "and we'll level with you."

Rafe's words caught Nathaniel with his mouth open. Everyone's stares moved from Nathaniel to Rafe, then back. Nathaniel gave Rafe a steady, long glare, then looked away.

"Riiiight, that's settled. And closed." Cy glared around the table, and changed the topic.

Long, long, boring. The thought of getting out of San Francisco and into the warm South was quickly overrun by the usual minutiae of show planning, flight arrangements, interviews, promo things. Cy and Nathaniel kept casting glares towards Vão, their disgust and anger beating at him; Vão was careful to keep his gaze fixed on the window, running through mental exercises to reinforce his shielding and not let them get to him. He didn't want to start anything here, and it was obvious that both were still angry about the weekend.

Finally, it was over. Vão wanted to bolt out of there, but he held himself in check, casually lagging behind the others.

Cy was already ahead of them and through the doors, the others trailing, chattering. Mel and Jack were nowhere to be seen — Vão glanced at the clock: past 4:30. He edged towards the mail Mel had been working on, picking up letters at random and trying to figure out her sort-system.

There. A torn edge…

"What are you doing?" Rafe said, right behind him.

Vão jumped, throttled the yell before it tore loose, and collapsed against the nearby desk, waiting for his heart to get out of his throat. Rafe, though, was staring — not at Vão, at the torn photo that Vão'd dropped.

"Jesus," Rafe said. "What is that?"

Vão swallowed irritation. "Mel had it, when we came through. Spooked her good. She called Cy over and he wouldn't let me see —"

Rafe grabbed Vão's wrist when Vão moved to pick it up. "Don't. It's real, whatever it is."

A promo photo of the band, one of the recent ones with Nathaniel that the fan club had just started sending out — the eyes stabbed out, the mouths blacked out with permanent marker, and brownish-red splatters were everywhere, crossing through arms, over hands, throats…and worse…

It'd been torn in two parts: Vão's image had been torn away from the others, though mangled just as horribly.

"Blood magic," Rafe breathed. _"Mierda…"_

"Talking behind my back?" Nathaniel had come into the room, then froze, staring at the photo.

"Look, idiots," Cy said from the outer door. This time all three musicians jumped. "I want to lock up." Then he saw where they were, and his irritation snapped out. "Carvalo, I told you to leave that alone."

"It's not an idiot fan," Vão blurted. "That's real. It's _serious."_ He was babbling, he knew it, but the blood-lust coming off the photo was too strong, hammering at his Gift, right through his shields.

"Then I'll tell the cops about it and we'll let _them_ deal with it," Cy said. "You three get your asses out of here and _Go. Home."_

"But —"

Rafe grabbed Vão by the arm, shoved him and Nathaniel away, past Cy. "We're leaving, we're leaving." He kept shoving Vão; Nathaniel had pulled away but was still walking with them. Vão didn't resist, clamping his jaw around his anger until Rafe had steered him out to the parking lot and to his car. Then, only then, did Vão jerk free of the grip and round on Rafe.

"Shut up," Rafe said, before Vão could get anything out. _"_Don't say nothin'. Just shut up. _Yelling at Cy ain't gonna help!"_

Vão collapsed back against his car, struggling to get under control, to calm down. He was one step from freaking out good and royal, but Rafe was right, damn him. It didn't help that he could sense Rafe was just as close to freaking as he was, nor that Nathaniel was standing right there, watching both of them with his arms crossed and his face world-class blank.

"We'll call Mar." Rafe now had both hands on Vão's shoulders, right in his face. "We'll tell her and they can deal with it. Better, let's drive over there and you can freak at her."

He could imagine Mar's reaction to that. Tough and no-nonsense, Mar Mountainhawk was one of those in charge of Bay Area Center; she commanded the Association's Blades for the western U.S. Vão swallowed hard, breathed out, managed a weak grin. "You're trying to get me killed."

Rafe only gave him a rough shake, then let him go.

"Someone wanna tell me what's going on?" Nathaniel said. Even. Calm.

"Sure, Tanner," Rafe said. "You gonna level with us now?"

Abruptly Vão caught what Rafe meant. How he'd missed it… "If it helps," Vão said, quiet apology, to Nathaniel, "I'm an Empath. I don't want to be. And Rafe's —"

"— a guitar player," Rafe cut him off. Then, to Nathaniel, "Well?"

Nathaniel's expression was a study in shock, struggle, and suspicion, his stare moving from Vão to Rafe and back. Without a word, Nathaniel stalked off towards his car.

"I'll tell my own secrets, thank you very much," Rafe said to Vão.

"Sorry." Vão's gaze was on Nathaniel's retreating back. "He's scared, Rafe. He's scared to death."

"He can join the club," Rafe said. "Not my fault he's a buster. Let's go ambush Mar. Look pathetic at her and maybe we can beg dinner, too."

Vão didn't move. "Rafe, if Cy takes that thing to the cops, they won't believe him. They won't believe us. And it'll destroy whatever's on there. Mar's people'll need to see it, you know that."

Rafe stood a moment, eyes closed, breathed out a curse in Spanish. "You're right." He looked around the parking lot; Cy and the others had already left, Nathaniel was just now pulling out. "Come on."

They went back up the stairs to the front door; Rafe laid his hand on the wrought iron-work. Vão heard him whisper, felt the slight surge of energy and resulting vertigo. The iron screen clicked open, the door swung in.

"After you," Rafe said, his mouth quirked.

They eased through the building, back to the mail room. The photo still sat on the top of the mail pile. Vão wasn't about to touch it again; just looking at it made him ill. Even Rafe looked decidedly green.

"Here." Rafe snagged a sheet of cardboard off one of the desks. Using a couple other pieces of mail, they scraped the photo onto the cardboard, weighted it down with a box of paperclips after the ventilation blew it off the cardboard three times, then carried it out to Vão's car.

"I'm not having that in my car,_" _Vão said.

"I'm on my bike," Rafe said. "So I can't. I'll be right behind you. It can't cause that much trouble between here and Yerba."

Vão glanced across the parking lot. "You got a _Harley?_"

Rafe grinned, back to his usual cocky self. "Maybe I'll let you ride it later. Haul it, mister. Before Cy decides to come back."

Vão had to force himself to not look at the photo all through the long drive to Yerba Buena; the Center was the only estate on the island. The photo kept snagging his attention; he pressed against the car door, to stay as far away from it as possible. He felt slimy and unclean just being near it —

The blast of a horn jerked him back, then a flash of fear, blinding pain, screaming. Vão spun the wheel, barely avoided a green truck skidding over from the next lane, skidded onto the shoulder; his bumper and passenger side scraped the concrete barrier. He wrestled control back, slammed on his brakes, and finally came to a stop on the shoulder.

His head against the steering wheel, panting, Vão sat there, shaking from the near miss. But the pain hadn't stopped, battering at him from outside. His shields collapsed under the onslaught, as if they'd never existed: broken bones, crushed limbs, shattered ribs — weight crushed him, crushed his legs —

Behind him on the highway, three cars had piled up. Vão shoved open the car door, staggered out, but the phantom pain crumpled him to the pavement. He couldn't block it. He couldn't do anything but fight not to scream. Then it hit him, and he tried to struggle up. Rafe — oh dear god, Rafe had been behind him!

Rafe screeched up in a controlled skid. Rafe jerked his helmet off, stared back at the wreck — one of the cars was pancaked against the other shoulder — then collapsed against Vão's car. Breathing a long stream of curses, Rafe was shaking as badly as Vão was, but then he saw Vão huddled on the pavement and shoved away from the car.

Vão _felt_ the energy slam around him, solid and shielding. The pain eased off; he could breathe.

"What'd Kris tell you about your shields?" Rafe growled, helping Vão up. "You okay?"

Shuddering, Vão shook his head, took another shaky breath, reinforcing his own shields as best he could, but he could still feel the panic and pain beating against him. He looked away, desperate for distraction. A car had stopped — the green truck. It had pulled off ahead of Vão's. No one had gotten out, but Vão caught a glimpse of a jowled face watching him through the side-view mirror.

The truck pulled away.


	3. The Blades

_Early February 1978: New Orleans, LA_

It was a sunny day in New Orleans, right at the start of the Mardi Gras festival. A gorgeous day, for such a grim task. Kris Mountainhawk hefted her duffel bag, paused at the stair-door of the French Quarter townhouse. Joshua's aunt owned this elegant wedding-cake building, with her husband's restaurant on the ground and middle levels and their living quarters on the top floor and roof — one of the rare New Orleans buildings with a flat and accessible roof.

"Pretty, huh?" Joshua nodded at the building. Joshua Thomas was lean and muscular, his skin the color of antique walnut, his voice accented with Louisiana Creole despite his years in San Francisco and the Army; he'd changed the beads in his short dreads to glittery Mardi-Gras-style harlequins. He stood out in all the ways Kris didn't, and she preferred it that way: her faded t-shirt and jeans to his tie-dyed _dashiki_ and close-fitting teal Levis, her blonde to his black, his flamboyance to her background shadow. Both of them, everyday, regular, normal. Outwardly, at any rate.

Her gaze was on the street; she felt exposed. Overloaded with balconies, galleries, and overhanging decorations, the streets were too narrow and cramped, compared to San Francisco. Too crowded. "Needs to be pink."

"Good lord. Don't let _Nainaine_ hear you say that or she'll slap you back to San Francisco." Joshua pulled the door open, gestured her up the narrow stairs. "After you, partner."

Not just for the festival, no. Joshua's aunt was on the Council of the local Association Center, and a Voodoo priestess — though she never referred to herself as such. She hadn't told them much over the phone, only an invitation to come enjoy Mardi Gras in the Quarter…and to come prepared.

"Prepared", for Kris, had only one meaning. It was never good, not for a Blade in the cause of the Association.

The door at the top creaked open. A hefty man in a buzz-cut and a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt stepped out on the landing, then broke into a grin when he looked beyond Kris — Roy Duprè, Joshua's uncle.

"Uncle," Joshua said. "Shouldn't you be downstairs?"

The man waved Kris inside with a courteous _"Mam'zelle_" and clapped Joshua on the back. "Don't open until tonight. Mardi Gras special. Need to give my people some time to enjoy it, or they revolt." He eyed Kris. "Finally get a girlfriend?"

"Gods forbid." Kris eyed the large, airy space overladen with books, and felt her shoulders relax — the place felt _safe_. "I've got better taste."

Joshua laughed. "And she's missing a few important inches. Godzilla couldn't come down. He scored that _sous chef_ slot, thanks to you, Uncle."

Godzilla was Joshua's boyfriend of the past year, and hopefully, finally, thankfully, he and their relationship looked to be stable. It didn't hurt that Godzilla was a talented chef; Joshua was just as picky over food as he was in style.

Roy was grinning. "Least you inherited Alma's good taste in food."

"Joshua!" was all the warning they got, and then Joshua was enveloped in a large hug from an equally large woman dressed in bright florals and cornrow braids with real silver beads: his aunt Alma. They were ushered into the kitchen, a bright ultra-clean room of gleaming marble and steel with large patio doors swung open onto the wrought-iron gallery, and ensconced at the table with cups of chicory-laced coffee and a stack of _beignets _drenched in powdered sugar.

The rest of the place was piled with books, overstuffed toile furniture, scented candles and flowery-bright paintings of various Catholic saints — Kris stared in awe at the one of Joan of Arc: white horse, golden armor with banners of red, blue, and green, her sword upraised and surrounded in flame. The apartment smelled of cinnamon and vanilla and was warded so that it almost glowed to regular sight, let alone Kris's Mage-sight. Good thing, especially with the tale Alma told.

This time, "prepared" meant murder…multiple. Serial. And worse, ritual.

"We've done circles," Alma said. "Major workings, all together, my _voodooienne_, the serious covens, a Druidic grove, and aligned folks from the Center. The Pentecostals and Baptists have done the same — some even unbent enough to join ours. Trying to track the killer down. We get hints, we get foggy seeing, we get the pain and terror, little else. Never the killer. Victims always — runaways, tourists, young men and women — those whom no one will miss until it's too late. Some of our Gifted, also young and innocent. Untrained. We think the others may have been, as well. Hard to say."

Kris and Joshua exchanged looks. "The cops?" Joshua said.

Alma snorted. "They've linked the showy ones — the ones dripping with flashy Satanic 'voodoo' trappings," her voice dripped scorn, "just real enough to be serious. We think those were done to stir up fear in the community, among us. The others, they don't know, don't care, or can't link. Idiot young tourists, they say. Runaways. Ninth Ward 'trash'."

"Fear, blood, pain, and he's hunting untrained Gifted." Kris's hands clenched the coffee cup. "Dear gods."

"The killer can hide from you and the local powers." Joshua gripped his St. Michael medallion; under his voice was the same tension Kris was forcing down. "_Nainaine_, I don't see how you think we can do anything."

"You both tracked that killer in San Francisco. You ended it. And what you've taken on, with those musicians." Alma paused. "Four from our Center have been his victims. That _makes_ it a matter for the Association."

"Not what I meant," Joshua said.

"It'd be our matter, Association or not." Kris had winced at the reference to Karma. She wasn't sure of that matter, two of them in particular. "But Josh is right." She looked up at Alma, a steady gaze that took in _everything. _Alma's prime was Healing and Empathy, a true _traiteuse. _"You're a major priestess here. You've got power that we can't touch. You can't track the killer, but you expect _us_ to?"

"You can," Alma said, a touch deeper, a touch more resonance, and Kris had a brief flash of vision — a Black Joan d'Arc, sword upraised, surrounded in divine fire. "You will. You are the hunters. The wielded blades."

Kris caught Joshua's sideways look. "Can't argue with that," Joshua said.

"I can argue with anything," Kris said. "But you're right."

Nodding, Alma pushed herself up from the table. "I have a map of the sites we know of, the ones the police ignored. We're certain the killer will prowl Mardi Gras, with all the transients."

"No time like the present." Kris slanted a look at Joshua. "Better do a little souvenir shopping, though, or Godzilla will never forgive you."

"You will not miss Mardi Gras," Roy said, smiling. "We hold open house, up on the roof and here on the gallery. My own barbecue, some of the local Zydeco folk, my good customers, and our people. All in view of the parades and party."

Kris sighed and accepted Joshua's hand up. "C'mon, partner," Joshua said. "We're not turning down _that_ bribe. I know their cooking."

Alma's map told little, save where the sites were — no pattern, no feelings, no fore-seeings. The ones where actual bodies had been left, with or without the occult trappings, were in small isolated spots of the Quarter, in garden lots or small hidden turns. That definitely fit the pattern of causing fear and terror. But the others were less certain, tracked only by police reports of found body parts, rumors among the street people, the odd blood splatter and tracking attempts of Alma's circles. Some were in the Quarter, but off the tourist track, others near the Mississippi docks and poorer, run-down sections. Alma's notes from the tracking circles told little more: foggy seeings, premonitions, brief glimpses of faces…

"Anything?" Joshua said to Kris.

Kris touched the map, was silent for a long moment, then shook her head. Joshua's prime was Mage-talent, and he was good one. She, though, was a jack, a mix of many minor things…save one. Touch-reading was not her best. "We'll have to run 'em down physically. We'll only catch him by outsmarting him or catching him in the act, I think."

"Those damn-Yankee detective friends of yours'd be useful about now," Joshua muttered. He scowled at the map. "Bait him?"

"You're too trained," Alma said, "both of you. It shows."

"Great," Kris said. For a long moment, she and Joshua stared at the map.

"C'mon," Joshua said finally. "Let's start runnin' down the Quarter and the riverside ones. Mardi Gras on the event horizon, all the fresh tourist meat out there — he's gotta be a shark ready for full frenzy. We can at least weight the dice of luck on our side."

Kris sighed; in some things, Joshua was too predictable. "You just want an excuse to ogle all the half-nekkid men."

Joshua grinned. "Hey, if it gets the patron saint of lust on our side, I'm all for it…"


	4. The Detectives

"Mardi Gras," Joe Hardy said. Grinning, he took in the cramped street over-crowded with costumed revelers, parade floats on the backs of pickup trucks and small flatbed trailers, the wandering musicians. The streets glowed with color, sunlight, fluttering flags and bunting. He and his brother Frank needed this break. They'd been working too hard in helping Dad catch up on his casework and in carrying part-time hours at Bayport Community College for a change, instead of the on-again, off-again, as-money-allowed scheduling they usually had to struggle with. But this year, the money was there. Dad had ordered them off the last case, presented them with tickets to New Orleans and shanghai'd them to the airport, with a final command to "be normal young guys, for a change".

As usual, Frank ignored him. Only a year separated them, but Frank acted much older; he took the responsibilities of "eldest" seriously, even to his clean-cut prep-school-jock looks, as opposed to Joe's looser, long-haired shaggy casual. Frank hefted a suitcase out of the cab's trunk and shoved it at Joe, before staring up at their hotel with an audible sigh: an older, elegant red building with green-wood balcony doors and shutters, a wrought-iron balcony dripping with lights and flags, the front door encased in the same wrought-iron work.

"Lighten up," Joe said. "Think of the girls. All those Cajun beauties. Decadence. Parties. _Girls._"

"Sleep," Frank said. "That's all I care about. Lots and lots of sleep."

Joe stood, aghast. "You're in the middle of the biggest party in the world, and you're going to _sleep?"_

Frank shoved another suitcase at his younger brother.. "It's a vacation. It's supposed to be rest. Time to recharge."

"_You_ can recharge. _I'm_ going to party."

Frank's mouth quirked. "Look at it this way. It leaves more for you."

"True," Joe said, with an exaggerated sigh as he followed Frank. He turned, grinning at the Mardi Gras chaos around them, and raked a hand through his gold-brown hair to get the travel-tangles out. "It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it."

Despite the external elegance, inside the hotel was shabby and run-down, but still costing a lot of money for being just off Bourbon Street. Joe looked around dubiously. Dad getting rooms so close to Mardi Gras time meant there wasn't much choice, but still… Joe hung back in the doorway to their room, as the wizened, gray-haired bellhop shoved the suitcases on top of the free-standing closet. Frank went to poke at the room's AC unit. Even from the door, there was a sour, rusted smell.

"Too stuffy," Frank muttered. He gave up on the AC, tried the windows with no luck.

"The word is 'rank'." Joe didn't want to go any farther into the room and settled for leaning in the doorway. He didn't see any obvious signs of mice or cockroaches. The room looked mostly clean, but still…

"This'n's our best room." The bellhop turned, snagged up another set of suitcases just inside the door and started to push past Joe.

If this was the best, he'd hate to see the worst. "Whose are those?"

"Previous tenant's…"

"He left without his things?" Frank said.

The bellhop sighed, set the suitcases down outside the door. "Yes…and no. He left the room, but he's still in New Orleans."

That didn't sound good. But as usual, Frank beat Joe to the words. "Say again?"

"They found him floatin' in the bayou two days ago." The bellhop shrugged. "Somethin' to do with voodoo_,_ cops say. Not like they know anythin' right, but that's what they say."

Joe swallowed. Just what he needed to hear. _"Voodoo?"_

"You people don't really believe that stuff, do you?" Frank said, grinning.

The bellhop had been turning back to the suitcases, but now glared at Frank. "Young man, let me give you some free advice. _Never. Take. Voodoo. Lightly._ Lot of people take it like you, find themselves in big trouble. Especially during Mardi Gras."

"Oh, come on," Frank said, but the bellhop snatched up the suitcases and stalked out.

Unsettled, Joe watched him go. The previous tenant, murdered by voodoo. Great. He kept his misgivings to himself; Frank was forever on his case about the weird things Joe had encountered…or just imagined, according to Frank.

Frank was shaking his head. "He sounded like Kris, all that spooky stuff."

Joe stayed in his lean in the doorway. It explained how Dad had gotten the room, anyway. "So the room's probably haunted on top of it." He wasn't sure he was joking.

"If we're lucky," Frank said. "That'll give us a story to top hers."

"I vote we don't worry about it until we're too tired to stand up." Joe decided to play it off. Any excuse to get out of the room, at this point; he was feeling spooked. "C'mon. Mardi Gras awaits."

The hotel manager was arguing with a woman at the front desk as Frank and Joe passed back through the small lobby. The woman glared at Frank and Joe as they walked by, but then her glare turned into an eyes-narrowed stare at Joe.

His mood lifted. Girls, he could handle. She looked about in her mid-twenties, brunette & pale, wearing a Karma tour shirt. Definitely cute. Joe gave her a flirting grin; she didn't return it. Instead, her gaze swept Joe up and down, then she gave him a slow nod and turned back to the manager…though she still seemed to watch Joe from the corner of her eye.

Unsettled and unsure why, Joe stood there a moment, then caught up to his brother. "Did you see that girl?"

"Hmmm?" Frank didn't sound interested, watching the streets.

Joe turned back, but he couldn't see the woman through the door-glass. He started to say something anyway, then changed his mind. "A girl was staring at me" sounded stupid. "Never mind."

Color, light, music. The streets were a welter of costumed chaos, clowns, Indians, people throwing beads and candy, stilt-walkers, street magicians, a jazz band on the corner. Joe kept getting struck by how _small_ the streets were — narrow, cramped, barely enough room for cars to park and for a parade to pass, but somehow, it all managed. At the corner of a passage between two wedding-cake buildings, a turbaned midget hawked "the best voodoo show in New Orleans" to passers-by. Frank caught Joe's eye and grinned.

Someone ran into them, from behind. "Hey handsome," breathed a female voice, "we'll meet again, I'm sure."

Joe turned. The woman from the hotel. Before he could react, she pressed against him, running her hands over his chest. Caught off-guard, Joe stared, but then she pushed away with a challenging stare, stumbled into Frank, then staggered into the crowd. But Joe caught a flick of movement —

"You and girls," Frank said.

"She got your wallet," Joe blurted, then shoved after her, yelling for people to stop her, Frank just behind him. In the crowd of costumes and people and traffic, she was small, easy to lose. People kept moving in front of them, laughing and grabbing at the brothers…

Joe broke into a clear space, skidded to a halt. She was nowhere in sight.

"Credit cards and cash," Frank groaned. "Dad's going to _kill_ us!"

Joe stretched to see over the crowd, trying to figure out how she'd disappeared so fast. Nothing, no one, not even a cop in sight. "She can't have gone far. She was arguing with the hotel manager. Maybe he knows her."

"Hey — _Hardy!"_

The voice was familiar. Both Joe and Frank turned. "Kris?" Joe said, incredulous.

"What are you two doing here?" Kris Mountainhawk stood at the street corner, Bourbon and Dumaine. Dressed in her usual gray t-shirt and faded black jeans, she was a small, plain blonde just a couple months younger than Joe. She'd been the kid-next-door back in Bayport, until her adoptive mother Mar had moved back to San Francisco because of her job — at least, that was the story they'd been given at the time. Given some things Kris had claimed — things that Frank steadfastly refused to believe — Joe wasn't certain he wanted the real story.

The question sounded a bit rude, but Kris had always had trouble with people-stuff; Joe was used to it. "Parties, decadence, wild women," Joe said, deadpan. "The usual."

"Don't listen to him," Frank said, grinning. "He wouldn't know what to do with a wild woman, even with an instruction manual."

"Like you do," Joe said.

Kris looked from Joe to Frank and back. "Um…"

She hadn't changed. Now grinning, Joe pulled her into a rough, big-brother hug, and laughed as she squeaked in surprise — and again, when Frank did the same and got the same reaction. "It's good to see you, too, Tag."

"Mardi Gras's the last place I would've expected you," Frank said to her. "Is Mar here, too?"

"Um…no," Kris said, reddening. "Just me, sort of."

A man came up behind Kris, one eyebrow raised. He was Black, lean, with a young-old face that made it hard to tell his age, dressed in a bright-colored _dashiki_ with rainbow-beads in his short dreadlocks. He looked familiar, though it took Joe a moment to place him, from photos Kris had sent after she'd moved back West.

"It's Joshua, right?" Frank said, to both Kris and the man. "Your Army 'big brother'?"

Joshua grinned, reached out his hand to shake. "The one and only, _chè_. You two are just as notorious, from all the tales she's told."

"It's a dirty job," Joe sighed, "but somebody has to do it."

"Your turn, Tagalong," Frank said to Kris. "Same question."

Joe caught the quick glance Kris and Joshua exchanged. "Same answer," Joshua said, still grinning; his accent sounded vaguely French. "Sort of. She's letting me corrupt her. She doesn't get the whole beads thing, though."

Both Frank and Joe looked at Kris, who blushed even harder. "The voodoo thing, actually," she muttered. "You know."

The brothers exchanged grins. "You and your spooky stuff, Tag," Frank said, shaking his head.

"Um…are you in trouble, big brothers? I heard you yelling and saw you running."

"Pickpocket got our wallets." Joe wasn't going to mention what the girl'd said; it made no sense. Maybe he'd just imagined it. Given some of the cases that Dad had them working the last month or so, it was too easy to get paranoid.

"The New Orleans welcome committee," Joshua muttered.

"Oh no," Kris said, at the same time. "Need help? I know you're good for it."

"We're okay," Frank assured her. "We'll call Dad. He'll yell a bit —"

"A lot," Joe said.

"— but he can wire us money."

"Or I'll just sell my body, instead." Joe heaved another exaggerated sigh. "I'm sure there's plenty of rich women tourists for me to hustle."

"_Joe…!"_

"No need to go that far," Joshua said, grinning, as Kris blushed again. "My aunt and uncle own a restaurant here, Duprè's."

"It's just down Bourbon, that way." Kris nodded. "They live above it, they own the building and that's where we're staying. Come over, I'll pay for dinner, at least."

Joshua snorted. "I'll do better — your friends are my friends, _chè_. They hold open house during Mardi Gras. I'm talking rooftop and gallery right over all this chaos — and my uncle's barbecue. You two seem straight-edge enough to help me convince 'em I'm still on the straight and narrow." Joshua's mouth twitched. "Though if you still want to sell your body, Joe, I know someone who'll take you up on it."

"Uh…sure," Joe said. The joke had changed and he wasn't sure how.

"You gotta do better than _that_ if you want to bait him in," Kris said to Joshua. "They know the local Zydeco scene really well, Joe. They got some of their musician friends coming 'round. No pressure, though." A shy, rare smile. "You probably don't want your kid sister hangin' round your partying."

This time Joe and Frank exchanged grins. Kris had come a long way from the abused runaway and shy tagalong they'd unofficially adopted as their kid sister. "Something like that," Joe said. "I'm partying. Frank's sleeping."

"Suuuure he is," Kris said. "Anyway. The invite's open, big brothers. Just tell 'em you're with us."

"Thanks, Tag," Frank said. "We'll take you up on that."

"My cousin's waiting." Joshua nudged Kris. "We need to scoot."

Kris blinked, caught herself. "Yeah. Sure." Joshua sauntered off, but Kris hesitated, giving Joe a long look.

It was unsettling, too much like the stare the pickpocket had given him in the lobby. "Okay," Joe said, opting for the wisecrack. "Be mysterious, Tag."

"Be careful, Joe," Kris said, quiet, serious. "Watch who you trust. And watch your back, both of you." With that, she ran after Joshua.

"What was _that_ about?" Frank said.

Joe watched them. Kris and Joshua ducked across the street, behind a passing float. They looked as if they were having a heated argument.

"They're here on business, I bet," Frank said. "I saw Karma posters in the lobby. Odd that Mar's not here, though."

"Whatever it is," Joe said, "we aren't here for it. We're here to party, and I have a lot of Cajun beauties to go through." When Frank didn't respond, Joe gave him a mock-glare. "Right?"

"Right," Frank said. "Let's call Dad and get it over with."


	5. Scene of the Crime

"Josh," Kris said, catching up, "you are _not._ You just are _not."_

Joshua's stride lengthened; she had to run to keep up. "There's no such thing as coincidence," Joshua growled. "Learn and deal, partner. They're here, there's a reason."

"Joe's not _trained! _ He doesn't believe in his own Gift — and Frank's so mundane — oh no. You want to use Joe as _bait!"_

"Kris." Joshua halted, his tone out-of-patience. "They're adults. If their big detective daddy hasn't taught them paranoia, suspicion and clear thinking by now, they're going to run into a lot deeper crap than our killer."

"But —"

"And if Joe can't accept what you and Mar were smacking him upside the head with," Joshua bore on, "then he's going to get into even deeper crap than _that_, and you know it." He caught the look on her face, sighed. "Kris, better it be with us watching, than without any help at all." Joshua started down another side-street towards the next of the crime scenes. "Besides, you heard Alma. The killer's targeting runaways and street trash. And kids. Both Frank and Joe are negatives on those counts. Especially Joe. You really sure he's straight?"

Kris refused to get side-tracked. "And untrained Gifted _and _tourists. I listen, too, Josh. Joe's a big _positive _on both those counts!"

Joshua breathed out, a long sigh. "Soooo…what? You want our killer to target someone we _don't_ know? Someone we can't find, and can't track?" He paused. "Or anotherkid?"

They'd reached a garden lot, hidden behind a tall wall. Joshua touched the locked iron gate with one finger, and it popped open so they could both slip through and ease towards the far corner. Even after this long, Kris could still make out the bloodstains. And worse.

"No," she said, resigned.

Joshua watched her a moment. "I'm not planning anything. We're just going to watch. If nothing happens, good and thank God. But if something does…" Joshua let his voice trail off, then nodded at the bloodstains. "Okay. Watch my back. I'm going in." He dropped into a cross-legged sit onto the bricks at the edge of the bloodstains, then sat silent, breathing into trance.

Kris kept her physical hand on the .45, her metaphysical hand ready to lash out at _anything_ that moved. It felt as if eyes watched them, both physically and other. For all she knew, they probably were, even after this long. This was the first of the killing sites, from about three months ago, according to Alma. The area had a nasty feel, slimy and crawling with things that hovered at the edge of her other-sight. Things that got…attracted…to the blood and pain left over and left behind.

Raucous, bright, and swirling, the street party roared just past the wall. Kris and Joshua had been running down the murder sites for the past three days, hoping that this time, _this_ one would be the killer's mistake, would have traces left, metaphysical tracks, signature, something, anything. This particular murder had taken place so close to Bourbon Street and the perpetual stream of tourists…and no one had heard anything, not until the body had been found.

Today was the start of the Mardi Gras. It ran for 12 days. Having a killer loose among them, a killer using real Gifts and magic…

A long intake of breath had her turning, then relaxing. Joshua shook his head, flexed his arms, then stood up in a long stretch. He staggered; Kris caught him. "You're not going to like it," he said. "And I'm going to need a whole _ton_ of alcohol after we get done today."

"I already don't like it," Kris said. "And I'm sure Alma's got that hideous home-brew all ready for you. Anything, this time?"

Joshua grinned briefly, then sobered. "Finally, yeah." He rubbed his forehead. "But barely, at that. They weren't as thorough here. More than one, I think. Our shark is hunting tandem."

Kris froze. "Oh no. Gods no."

"At least two. Three, hard to tell. I couldn't even get _gender_ and that's usually something sharks like this don't care about hiding." Somehow Joshua looked older, drawn and exhausted. "I got only a trace of signature, maybe enough to ID 'em, maybe not. Nasty — definitely blood magic. Rape. Torture. Burn-out. Raising power. For what, I can't tell. They know enough to erase most of the traces and that scares the hell out of me."

"Rape?" Kris said. "But this one's male."

"Yeah," Joshua said bitterly. "At least one of our sharks is queer. Or 'phobic and hating. Just wonderful."

"This was the first, according to Alma." Kris looked away, unable to bear the anger in Joshua's face. "The others didn't have any traces. So they're learning, then."

"That scares me even more." Joshua stared at the pavement. "Not Voodoo, Haitian or Louisianan, but it feels related, somehow. If I had to make a guess, someone's playing with stuff they don't have a right to. _More_ wonderful." He breathed out, gestured. "Go on, I got your back. Get what you can so we both know that sig. See if you can touch-read back."

She didn't want anywhere near that slimy filth. But Joshua was right — they had to both know the signature, what there was of it. Kris knelt, forced her breathing to steady, slow and deep. Her hand touched the pavement, right at the edge of one of the remaining stains.

Pain. Endless screaming descending into rhythmic whimpering, gagging, the distinctive, sickening traces of blood-lust and rape that she'd never be able to mistake for anything else — her jaw clenched against a rush of nausea — and, there, faint and swift-moving like a silvery fish in murky weeds at the bottom of a swamp, just a trace of the signature, unique to the mage, sound, light, feel…

Then, without warning, an image burst in, and she was caught in a vision as real as bone….

_In front of her: Vão bound to a pillar, gagged and blindfolded, his arms covered in blood, and his skin had been scraped raw in his struggle to get free, his dark hair matted with blood and sweat. Rafe and another man sprawled in front of him, unmoving, broken, shattered…_

_Where? Where? She reached out, to touch —_

Light burst into her face; the shock knocked her back. She collapsed over her knees, fighting not to throw up.

"What happened?" Joshua knelt beside her. "I felt _that_ resonating out here."

"It…" She gulped hard; it felt like her head was being squeezed, right behind her eyes. "I saw. A vision. Something. Vão, Rafe, someone else I didn't recognize. Like they were in front of me — oh jesus, Josh —"

"They're playing here," Joshua said slowly. "Thursday, at the Warehouse. A last minute show — sold out."

"_What?"_

"Mar told me before we left. It made no sense, because they're right in the middle of recording their album, but she said it's one of Cy's schemes." Joshua stared at the building wall, the dumpster. "Mar didn't want to tell you. She didn't want to kill your focus. She was going to handle it with whoever was on hand."

Kris tried to think of who'd been at Bay Area Center, didn't like the answer she came up with.

"But they can't be involved," Joshua said. "They haven't had any chance to come here, and this's been going on for months."

"No._"_ Kris shuddered, rubbing at her temples to try to ease the migraine. "Not like that. They were being _tortured. _ Like this." The word came suddenly, a blow. "Targets."

More silence. "Your pre-cog?" Joshua said.

It was hard to think through the pain. Even at the best of times, her precognition was fuzzy and uncertain, and yet… "I don't know. _I don't know_."

"Easy, partner." Quieter, "You get the sigs?"

"Like you, just traces." Despite her pounding head, she squinted up; everything was outlined in spiky migraine-halos. "Not Rafe, though, definitely."

Joshua grinned wickedly. "Yeah. Him and Vão are somewhat distinctive for you, huh?"

Kris felt the blush, but refused to look away. Joshua's grin grew wider. "I mean, yeah, Vão's an ass —"

"_Josh…"_

"Okay." Joshua helped her up, steadied her as she fumbled out her migraine meds. "C'mon. Let's head back. We'll call Mar, alert the other hounds as a precaution. I really want to do their real tour, this year. Godzilla'll never forgive me if I don't."


	6. Into the Den

**_Author's note: the original episode calls Thatcher's bar "Club Damballah". However, Damballah is the major loa in Haitian Voodoo, and it's forbidden to offer Him alcohol in any form — naming a bar after Him would be insulting, at best. So, the name has been changed for this tale._**

**_# # #_**

* * *

><p><strong><em># # #<br>_**

The police had been dismissive, lecturing about idiot tourists and Mardi Gras as Frank filed the report — Joe tried to talk him out of it as a waste of time, but Frank had to be a proper citizen, as usual — their bank rude and lazy over the loss of the credit cards, saying they couldn't do anything until Monday, at best, and only if they had the card numbers, to boot. Dad had been unable to believe that his sons, _his_ sons, hadn't been able to guard against a simple pickpocket. He'd agreed to wire them extra cash, but it still meant that they'd be without any funds for at least twenty-four hours. By the time that last call was done, Joe felt like he'd been beaten with clubs, and from Frank's expression, his older brother wasn't much better.

Silence held for a long moment in the shabby hotel room, which Joe finally broke. "I say we go search out that restaurant and take ruthless advantage of Kris."

Frank smiled, but didn't move. He'd stretched out on the bed, sitting against the headboard with his eyes closed.

"There's living things in there." Joe nudged the bed with his foot when Frank opened his eyes. "I just saw something move."

Frank got to his feet, too-casually brushing himself off. "Okay. I get the message. You're hungry. I'm moving."

If anything, the streets were even more crowded; it was around four in the afternoon. Despite the pickpocket, Joe felt his mood lift, watching the crowd and the parades — and the women, especially the ones on the floats, who wore glitter, sequin and little else. For that matter, not all women either. A flabby overweight man shimmied on one float; he was naked from waist up and in a huge headdress and skirt of green and yellow feathers, draped in Mardi Gras beads. Grinning, Joe turned to watch another float pass down the street, then saw a crowd on the other side of the street: guys in LSU sweatshirts hooting around a couple girls in tight, short skirts. The guys were draping glittery strings of beads around the girls' necks.

The girls had their shirts pulled up. And no underwear. Definitely no underwear.

Joe stared. For all his talk of decadence and partying, he wasn't quite prepared for it on that scale.

Frank had turned when Joe stopped, then eyed the display across the street. The guys were egging the girls on, and the girls were doing a bump-and-grind against a nearby street sign. One of the guys joined in, and the girls turned their attention from the sign to him. "Nice," Frank said, grinning.

"Nice? _Nice? _They've got — they're — and all you can say is _nice?_"

"You're seriously trying to tell me that you haven't seen a girl naked before?"

That brought Joe up short. "Well, yeah — I mean, no — I mean —"

Frank raised an eyebrow.

Joe clamped his mouth shut, brushed past his brother. "Never mind. I'm starved."

"Blackmail," Frank said under his breath, "is oh, so profitable. What's that rep you have, that I keep hearing about. Oh, right…'ladykiller'."

"That's _extortion_…" Joe stopped, staring behind his brother.

The woman from the hotel — the pickpocket — stood at the corner of a building, less than a quarter block away. With that odd half-smile, she cocked her head, gave Joe a half-salute, then disappeared down an alley.

"That's her!" Joe shoved through the crowd after her, only to pull up short at the turn, Frank right behind him. The alley blazed with neon and torches; a red and yellow neon sign of a reclining skeleton — the word "Samedi's" under it — flashed over a doorway at the base of the right-hand building. The woman wasn't in sight.

"She had to have gone in that bar," Frank said. "We got her. Come on."

"Dr. Duveé — direct from Haiti — the best black magic voodoo show in all of New Orleans — come right in…" It was the turbaned midget they'd seen earlier, still hawking the voodoo show. The midget pressed cards into their hands. "Have a drink, best drink on the house, courtesy of Dr. Duveé. Enjoy the show."

They pushed through the beads dangling over the entrance, stopped short just inside. Lit only by tiki torches and red candles on the tables, the bar was…unsettling. Black carpet, black tablecloths decorated with intricate golden symbols. Up on stage, two drummers pounded on skin-drums while a man in a straw loincloth and skull mask juggled lit torches. African tribal statues and painted skulls were everywhere, masks of distorted human faces, animals. Huge murals of purple, black and red lined the walls; Joe stared around, then his attention snagged on the closest mural, a skeleton in a shabby tuxedo sitting on a stack of coffins and grinning down at passersby.

The woman was nowhere in sight.

"Look at this place." Frank sounded amused.

"I guess people really do believe in this stuff," Joe said. The place did have a distinct B-movie vibe, but something about it scraped against his nerves. He pulled his gaze away from the mural, trying to spot the woman.

"I can't believe anyone still falls for it," Frank said, as he led the way through the bar. "It's nothing but superstition."

"Sorry," said a man at a nearby table; both Joe and Frank turned, as the man rose to his feet. "I hope you don't think I'm being rude, but I could hardly help overhearing you scoff at Voodoo." He spoke in a clipped British upper-class accent, an old white man, maybe early sixties, face wrinkled, bald and jowled like a white bowling ball on top of a dark suit, a couple strands of green Mardi Gras beads around his neck. He looked impeccably clean, his posture correct and precise.

He acknowledged their stares with a smile. "Won't you sit down? May I order you something?"

Kris's warning rang through his head; Joe opened his mouth, but Frank beat him to it. "And you are —?"

"Oh! I'm Doctor Orrin Thatcher. Professor of Cultural Anthropology at Oxford University. I came over here to see your Mardi Gras, to get a first-hand look at your local customs." Another smile and a nod towards the empty chairs at his table. "Sit down, please."

Frank exchanged a fast, uncertain look with Joe, but pulled a chair out, sat down. "I'm Frank Hardy. My brother Joe."

"Hi," Joe said, without enthusiasm, without moving. The man was giving him an odd, searching stare and smile. "Frank, that woman —"

"We're right by the door," Frank said. "She won't be going anywhere."

"Woman?" Dr. Thatcher said.

"She stole our wallets," Frank said. "She ran in here."

"A woman did pass by a moment ago." Dr. Thatcher lifted his hand, nodded at the bartender, who came over and dropped off three small plastic cups, filled with ice and something pink and alcoholic. "She went backstage. A most striking woman. Very beautiful."

"Backstage," Joe said, finally sitting down. "She works here?"

A burst of noise cut him off. The drums on stage had intensified; the lights dimmed even more and two stage hands bore a metal coffin onto the stage and removed the lid. The announcer's voice boomed through the club: "And now, direct from Haiti, the incomparable master of the black arts — Doctor Duveé!" Fire and smoke exploded from the coffin, the sides fell away, and a Black man in a mish-mash of African warpaint and tribal garb — complete with feathered turban and silk cape — stood up. He yelled something and yanked his cape open with a flourish — he was bare-chested with a necklace of bones.

A second-rate cheesy magic show was not incomparable, to Joe's mind. Then Duveé's yell sunk in — the brothers had been in Kenya that past fall, helping Dad with a poaching case, and they'd picked up a little Swahili, what Dad euphemistically called "all the wrong words."

It had sounded as if Duveé had yelled, "You f—ing stupid people!" in Swahili.

Joe struggled to keep his face straight. Frank was grinning, but applauded along with the crowd.

"I believe I recognize your names," Thatcher said. "Your father is a detective?"

Joe said nothing. Frank nodded, his attention half on the stage. "Yeah. Fenton Hardy."

"He's helped the University a few times," Thatcher said. "I remember him speaking of his sons. You have much to live up to, if you follow his path." Dr. Thatcher leaned forward on his elbows on the table, eyeing Joe again; the odd smile was back on his face. "You don't believe in Voodoo."

The brothers exchanged looks. "Not really," Frank said. "But your book _Black Science in the Twentieth Century_ was very convincing."

Joe shifted uneasily. "Convincing" was an understatement. He'd been disturbed and spooked by the supposed proofs that Thatcher had offered in the book, made worse when Kris had spotted the book on their kitchen table, picked it up…and a bit later, had put it back down, then refused to discuss it or even look at it, no matter how much Frank had teased her.

"Oh, you read my book!" Thatcher sounded delighted and surprised.

"We both have," Frank said, smiling. "But surely you don't believe in all this." His gesture took in the club and ongoing magic show; Duveé now pulled silk cloths and doves from his turban as scantily clad women draped themselves over him. Joe eyed the stage. Something about the show kept catching his eye, uncomfortably so.

"This? Oh, this is pure hokum," Thatcher said. "Just a magic show for tourists. It's not real Voodoo. Here, in New Orleans, so-called voodoo men are everywhere. A dime a dozen, I believe you Americans say. I'm writing a thesis on it. But believe me, Voodoo can be very real." His gaze settled on Joe. "There are many aspects of the black arts that cannot be explained, by any means."

He was not going to be intimidated by an old British guy. Joe returned the gaze. "Like what?"

Thatcher nodded towards the stage. "The good doctor."

The drumbeats had intensified again. Red spotlights focused on Duveé, stage-center, holding a voodoo doll in his left hand, a large pin in his right. Swiftly, dramatically, he jabbed the pin through the doll's chest.

Somewhere behind Joe, a woman screamed. He twisted around — a woman had collapsed to the floor, was picked up and carried to the stage by two of the stagehands. "Frank, that's her!"

She'd changed clothes, a loose, flowing white dress, her hair pulled back. The stagehands bound the unconscious woman's hands and feet and were placing her inside a large coffin, just as she started to 'wake up' and scream. They sealed the lid; the audience-side of the coffin was glass, the woman plainly visible, arching her back. Duveé pulled his cloak around himself, had sunk to the floor, calling out in pseudo-tribal babble —

Fire burst inside the coffin. The sides fell away, revealing the woman gone, only the remains of a white dress burning to cinders was left.

The audience burst into applause as the announcer went through the closing spiel and Duveé left the stage. Joe shoved to his feet. "That's it. She must be backstage."

"_Joe, wait!"_

But Joe was already moving. He made it around the stage corner and into the dim corridor, but was brought up short by a burly stagehand blocking his path.

"That girl." Joe raised his voice, loud enough to echo through the backstage area. "She stole our wallets. You people hire _thieves."_

Frank had come up behind him. "Either let us through," Frank said calmly, but just as loudly, "or we're going to the cops."

"Antoine?" A deep, resonant, accented voice echoed from a room to the side. Glaring down at Joe, the stagehand didn't turn, but said something in another language — it sounded French — and Duveé appeared in the doorway.

"Let them through," Duveé said.

The stagehand moved aside enough to let Joe and Frank pass, but stepped right back into place behind them. Joe exchanged an uneasy look with Frank, as Duveé ushered them into the dressing room.

"You accuse me of theft?" Up close, Duveé looked to be in his mid-forties, close-shaven and round-faced, flattened nose, tall and broad with thick muscles just starting to run to fat. The room was crowded with statues and pictures of saints and skeletons in tuxedos, flickering with candles and the heavy scent of tobacco. "You threaten me with the police?"

"No," Joe said. "Just that girl."

"The girl in your act," Frank said. "The one you burned up. She lifted our wallets out on the street. We followed her here."

"You did." Flat. Even.

"Look, we just want our wallets back," Frank said. "If we could talk to her, we won't press charges."

"She is not here." Duveé's gaze had moved to Joe. "She is an itinerant, a temporary I hired for Mardi Gras. If she returns, I will speak to her and return your wallets. But I will not have my people brow-beaten." A beat of silence. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"It was different," Joe said.

For the first time, there was a hint of a smile on Duveé's face. "Then enjoy the hospitality of my bar for your stay in New Orleans, as my apology for what my employee has done. Antoine, see these young men out and give their names to the bar."

The stagehand gestured. Joe turned to follow Frank out, when Duveé spoke again.

"You stay at the hotel across the street, yes? The hotel _Des Butin?"_

The brothers exchanged a startled look. Joe turned back. "You knew that how?"

The odd smile was back on Duveé's face.

"Right," Frank said. "Mysterious voodoo doctor. Got it. Let's go, Joe."

Joe held his silence all through the bar, but keeping his mouth shut wasn't easy. They passed by Thatcher's table again; he nodded at them as they passed. The moment they got out onto the street, Joe couldn't hold it back. "How'd he know where we're staying?"

"Joe," Frank sighed. "You said the girl was in the hotel lobby. She probably told him."

"But why?" Joe stopped himself, tried to calm down. The crowded festival swirled around them, mostly oblivious, though they were attracting a few odd stares. "Why bother telling him? And what did she tell him, there's a couple guys staying in that hotel? That doesn't make sense!"

For once, Frank didn't answer right away. "Lucky guess? Maybe the girl hangs out at that hotel to spot easy marks. We tell him she stole our wallets, he guessed right. Maybe he's had problems with her before."

Joe faced his brother. "That's a lot of maybes. That's not like you."

"It makes more sense than what you're trying to claim."

Biting back the immediate three things he wanted to say, Joe forced himself to think over what he'd said, what he'd seen. "Okay. Here's _sense_ for you. She targeted us deliberately. She knew who we were. She stole our wallets and took them to Duveé, and he's trying to impress us with the big bad voodoo daddy act to scare us off."

"That makes even less sense. Scare us off from _what?_ And why would Duveé want our wallets? He said he owns that bar. He doesn't need our cash. And how would that girl know who we are?"

"_Thatcher_ did!"

"Thatcher didn't know until I told him. Even then, he only knew Dad." Arms crossed, Frank smiled, every inch the know-it-all older brother dealing with his paranoid younger sibling. "I thought you were just here to party."

"I am. But we were _just_ out swimming when those crooks dropped that statue on us. And _just _flying home when those pilots got sick. And _just _driving through Egypt when —"

"Joe…"

"_And_ Tag's here. We _just _happened to run into her. We haven't seen her in…what…over a year? And she _just_ happens to be —"

"_Joe,"_ Frank said, and it cut Joe silent. "Like you said, we're just here for vacation. You even said it, whatever Tag's here for has nothing to do with us, and I'm making a bet she and Josh are just guarding Karma. We're not on a case. There's no reason to target us. There's no reason for Duveé to scare us, and he didn't. He offered us free bar. He's just playing his act, that's all."

It sounded so reasonable. With a heavy sigh, Joe gave in. "I hate it when you make sense."

Frank cracked a smile. "That's why I'm the older brother. Now let's go find that restaurant and extort a meal out of 'em."


	7. Fear & Loathing

Vão hated flying, every last bit of it, from airport to terminal to the sheer terrifying height of the flight to the airport again, no matter that it was a private-rented jet and not a commercial flight. Getting drunk made him sicker; knocking himself out with tranquilizers left him dopey and fuzzy-headed. The flight into New Orleans had been no exception: long, nauseous, and terrifying. Knowing that the mutilated photo was packed in Mar's bag just made it worse.

He kept himself isolated from the others on the plane and settled in the middle with headphones on and a new Walkman cassette player loaded with the latest Zappa album. Rafe and Nathaniel were up front; Rafe had his guitar out, showing Nathaniel some complicated fingering. Dylan and Ian were arguing over some stupid book, _The Amityville Horror_, loud enough to be heard despite Vão's headphones.

"It's a hoax," Vão said, cutting them both off.

"No, it's not_,"_ Ian started, then caught Dylan's grin and sighed.

"Maybe we should head out there and let you and Rafe check it out," Dylan said to Vão.

Vão shuddered. "_No_. Can you two keep it down? I wanna be sick in peace."

Dylan cocked his head, then got up to go talk to Mar. He came back with something whitish and shredded. "Here. Try this."

"Dyl…"

"Ginger root," Dylan said. "One of Mar's Heap Big Injun Cures. Helps with seasickness, motion-sickness, air-sickness, just general ick-ness. And she said either try it or quit your griping and suck it up like the rest of us."

Vão looked up, caught Mar Mountainhawk watching him. She'd taken charge of their bodyguards for the trip, a wiry, tough old woman with weathered skin. He sometimes suspected that Mar's herbs didn't do anything but taste and smell foul, to take your mind off whatever you were griping about by giving you something worse. The ginger was pungent, but not bad, and after a few minutes, his stomach did settle, enough that he could relax into the seat and focus on the music.

He'd dozed off by the time they touched down in New Orleans, jolted when Dylan nudged him awake. Vão took a brief detour to the plane's bathroom to splash his face with water and get the sleep out of his eyes; stepping from the plane to the tarmac was a jolt. He'd expected it to be warmer, but it was just as chilly as San Francisco.

Vão huddled in his leather jacket as the folks from the local New Orleans Center met them and got integrated with the rest of the bodyguard team; Vão said little, letting the chatter swirl around him without paying any attention or just grunting if they expected an answer. He'd braced himself against the pressure of the drunken partying and the festival. Mar had given him a crisp lecture back in San Francisco when she'd picked up the state of Vão's shields, and Rafe had been helping Vão keep them reinforced. It helped, but not much, and it scared him.

It also meant that Rafe was now in closer contact with Vão's Empathic Gift, and it was impossible to not pick up on the guitarist's mental state. Vão tried pulling away more, to stay private and respect Rafe's privacy…but he kept finding excuses to hang out near Rafe, and worse, Rafe was watching Vão when he didn't think Vão was looking. It was maddening, irritating, confusing.

The hotel was a pleasant surprise. Vão hadn't expected much, given the show had been last minute and in the middle of Mardi Gras to boot, but Cy had somehow worked a miracle and gotten them a five-star place, a huge Ramada right on Bourbon Street. But the bigger surprise was waiting in the lobby as they pushed through the doors in a chaos of chatter and duffel bags.

Kris and Joshua sat sprawled in two of the armchairs. Both pushed to their feet as the band came through the doors.

Vão stopped, shocked but grinning with delight and relief. Finally, something going right. Behind him, Rafe yelled, "Kris!" and shoved past to pull Kris into a rough hug. Vão caught up and added himself to that hug, leaving her trapped between them. For a moment, Kris accepted both, but then she stiffened, pulled back. With a sigh, Vão let go. He'd hoped she'd be used to this by now, but…

One of the NOLA Center people — a short, sharp-faced brunette — was frowning in their direction. Vão glared back, but the woman only smirked in response. At that, Vão turned away and put himself between the woman and Kris's line of sight — he knew some of Kris's background, and she had a hard enough time dealing with him and Rafe, without adding in judgmental idiots.

Joshua looked amused, but then sobered. His gaze moved past the band to Mar and the other Center folk.

"This looks serious," Mar said; she'd raised an eyebrow at Kris, Rafe, and Vão. Vão flushed — Mar was Kris's adoptive mother — but then Mar smiled, shaking her head. He and Rafe had called Kris and Joshua from San Francisco to let them know of the photo, Vão struggling not to freak, Rafe his usual cocky self, and Mar giving them one of those same _looks_ the whole time.

"It is," Kris said, before Joshua could answer. "It can't wait. The game's changed."

"We need to see that photo," Joshua said.

Vão swallowed; Rafe breathed out a curse. Kris was all-business and serious to a fault; they were used to that. But when _Joshua_ didn't joke around or follow common courtesy, it was bad. When he didn't even try to make any of the band blush with over-the-top, full-tilt, gay-guy-after-the-straights flirting, it was worse than bad. Much worse.

"Excuse me," said Nathaniel; his wife, Candi, was staring around the lobby with open disdain. "Who are you guys?"

"Our bodyguards," Dylan said, grinning. "Especially Kris and those two bodies in particular."

"In private, please," Joshua said, as Kris blushed and pulled away further from Vão and Rafe. Joshua cocked his head at Nathaniel. "You're the new guy, I take it?"

Now the uneasy exchange of looks included Dylan and Ian. For Joshua not to open up flirting with a good-looking guy like Nathaniel, especially a new member to the crew…

Nathaniel nodded, but didn't offer his hand. "Nathaniel Tanner."

"In the rooms, then," Mar said.

Mar commandeered a room for her own. That meant that Dylan had to squeeze in with Vão and Rafe, but Vão didn't mind; the rooms were large suites. At the moment, not just Mar, but the whole band and Cy were in her room, with three of the other Center folk by the door and windows — they'd shut Candi and Ian's mate Chad out of the meeting, and Candi had definitely and loudly not liked that. Nathaniel was eyeing Mar and her people with open suspicion. They still hadn't explained matters to Nathaniel, but Nathaniel hadn't leveled with them yet, either: an unspoken stand-off.

What Vão _did _mind was the photo that Mar took from her bags, wrapped in thick silk and encased between several layers of cardboard scrawled with protective symbols of several different traditions: Neo-Pagan, Native Am, Judaic, Christian, Muslim. Mar didn't touch it, save to set the cardboard on the desk.

Kris and Joshua looked at each other. Then, gingerly, Joshua undid the ties and wrapping to expose the mutilated photo, until it lay in a patch of bright sunlight from the window. Vão couldn't look at it. It was worse than he remembered.

"Woah," Dylan breathed. "Where'd _that_ come from?" Ian edged closer, stared, then turned away, hands over his mouth. Vão and Rafe hadn't told them about the mangled photo.

"Fan mail," Rafe said. "Vão spotted it. We…uh…oh, yeah. Cy, we forgot to tell you — we kinda took it."

Face red, Cy huffed up. "I told you to let me give that to the _cops_. I reported it. I looked like an idiot when I couldn't find it!"

"Cy," Mar said, and it cut their manager silent, "they did exactly right. _That_ is not a matter for the cops."

"You can say that again." Kris bent over the desk, studying the photo without touching it, Joshua doing the same from the other side.

Vão looked away, not wanting to make them uneasy with his staring. Movement by the window caught his gaze: the sharp-faced brunette was scowling again — the one who'd been scowling at Kris in the lobby. Great, just great. Vão really didn't want to deal with a jealous bodyguard potentially interfering with what little love-life he and Rafe had managed with Kris . With a sigh, Vão let his shields slip a bit; maybe he was mis-interpreting it, but if there was a problem, he would tell Mar…

…and met nothing. _Nothing._ As far as his Gift was concerned, the brunette wasn't there.

She noticed his stare, but only smiled.

At that point, both Joshua and Kris shook themselves. They looked at each other, faces tight, then, eyes closed, Kris bowed her head, breathed something out.

"No wonder they freaked," Joshua murmured, rubbing at his forehead. "Full sig." He glanced at Kris again. "But no gender trace."

"Blood magic. That's blood. Tearing it like that — trying to break ties?" His arms crossed, Ian sat on the edge of one of the beds, rocking back and forth. "Marking it, to silence us…separate us?" Ian broke off; Joshua and Kris were staring at him. "Um…I did some reading. Some of those books you told me about, Kris."

"Oh, good," Joshua said, "so there's some brains with you guys after all. Suddenly I'm much relieved, _chè_."

Ian grinned. "Someone has to keep up with the two flashy whiz kids."

"You can have it," Vão muttered; the brunette was still watching him. "All of it. I'd love to be the one trying to keep up."

At that, Kris's gaze moved to Vão, an odd, studying look. "Shield problems again?"

"Still," Vão said.

"Did you touch it, at all?" Joshua said. "Or you, Rafe?"

Rafe shook his head, but Vão sighed. "I had to," Vão said. "I got it out of the mail pile. And Mel did. She was holding it. She showed it to Cy."

"I told you to leave it alone," Cy snapped. "And you didn't listen, as usual."

"It's targeted," Joshua said, over top of Cy. "You're right, Ian. Blood magic, and it's very specific. Specific effect, specific aim. Lure _and _attack."

Everyone was staring at Joshua now, and fear crawled in the bottom of Vão's gut. There was something they weren't saying; he could tell, Kris was radiating it. "A lure? To what?"

"Would someone _please_ tell me what you guys are talking about, besides the obvious?" Nathaniel broke in. "And who these people are?"

"Well, fine, Tanner," Cy said, before anyone else could react; he still sounded peeved. "That's Joshua Thomas, Kris Mountainhawk. They joined the bodyguard group last tour — officially, anyway."

"Magic," Nathaniel snapped. "I distinctly heard the word 'magic'."

"It'd be easier if you leveled with us, too, Nathaniel," Kris said.

"Good luck with that," Rafe muttered.

Glaring, Nathaniel stood there, not giving in. Kris and Joshua exchanged a long look — an exchange that ended with Joshua shrugging an upraised palm in Kris's direction, _go-ahead._

"Okay," Kris sighed. "Fine. Fast-track version, coming up." Arms crossed, she settled into a lean against the desk, the mangled photo at her back, and fixed her stare on Nathaniel. "Welcome to the spooky stuff, Nathaniel. Psychic, paranormal, supernatural, whatever you want to call it. Josh's prime is mage — energy manipulation — and I'm a jack, a mix — lot of little things like telekinesis, healing, mage, you name it, I've probably got a touch of it. We're both Blades — protectors — for the Association —"

"Like Jedi," Dylan broke in, grinning, and Vão rolled his eyes.

"Not hardly, _chè_," Joshua said. "There's a lot of folks with Gifts. The Association tries to train and protect them."

Kris ignored them both. "— and we were here on other business when Mar called us — with Vão and Rafe there freaking out in the background, I might add — to say you guys had been sent _that _bit of bad juju. Am I going too fast for you, or are you keeping up?"

"Only a few of your bodyguards are Blades, Nathaniel," Joshua said. "We're a bit uncommon. The ones I see in this room right now — that's more than usual."

"Claire isn't," Mar said.

The sharp-faced brunette nodded, her gaze fixing briefly on Vão again before she turned back to the window.

"She's one of the local talent," Mar went on. "We're a bit short-handed at Bay Area right now. NOLA Center sent her and a couple others over when we yelped."

"I stand corrected," Joshua said. "My apologies, _mam'zelle_. But Karma's been using Center folk as guards for…what, Mar? Three years?"

"The last two tours," Cy said.

"And the one before that," Mar added, "we had a Blade on them because of the two potential nuclear bombs, there."

"My first assignment," Kris said, looking at Vão.

Vão couldn't meet her gaze; he remembered that tour far too well, and that particular incident. He still had nightmares over it.

"You didn't tell me _that_," Cy said.

"Be grateful," Mar said.

Nathaniel had gone still.

"As for your bandmates…" Kris eyed Vão and Rafe. Vão nodded; Rafe looked away, and she sighed. "Sorry, Rafe. It's too late for hiding and too dangerous right now. Vão's an Empath —"

"Yeah," Nathaniel said, "he said."

"— and Rafe's another mage-gift. Freakin' big ones, both of 'em —"

"That's not what the plaster casters said," Dylan said.

"— and Dylan, Ian," Kris went on. "Maybe. Kind of. Sensitives, at least."

"Wait, _what?"_ Dylan said, at same time as Ian's "Since _when?_"

"Like needles near a magnet," Joshua said. "Sometimes you pick up sensitivity. You two were showing signs of it last tour."

"Um," Ian said.

Joshua cracked up, and it spread around the room, a sudden, needed release of tension; only Kris stood unsmiling, her expression impatient. Vão and Rafe looked at each other, then looked at Dylan's and Ian's faces and burst into their own hysterical laughter that Vão couldn't stop. He finally collapsed to his knees, trying to catch his breath, and couldn't — every time Rafe caught his eye, they both started laughing again until Rafe collapsed to the floor beside Vão, both breathless and wheezing with hysterics.

"It's a matter of paying attention, Ian," Kris said, over top of them. "You and Dylan were. You found out about it, you started watching for it, and you bugged us for all the details. Like being able to tell when Rafe's playing or someone else — you know what to listen for."

"Um." Dylan, this time. "You're not gonna put us through the same hell you give these guys, are you?"

"Not unless there's a chance you can go boom, darlin'." The corner of Joshua's mouth twitched.

Nathaniel had settled into a silent, arms-crossed lean against the wall. For once, Vão couldn't read anything off him.

"Well," Mar said to Nathaniel. "You haven't been going 'what?' every few seconds. So…that means you must know what the Association is. And you definitely know what Gifts are, because you're shielded — badly, but you are." No response from Nathaniel. Mar cocked her head. "I've been thinking you look familiar."

"He's from L.A.," Rafe said; that earned him a glare from Nathaniel.

"L.A.?" Mar said. "That's…ohhhhh…wait, that's it. Tanner. Nate Tanner." Nathaniel's face went completely blank. "Healer. You're the one they —"

"I'm a keyboardist," Nathaniel snapped. "I play in a rock band. Nothing else. Period." With that, he shoved past the others and out the door, slamming it behind him.

"He's the one they _what_, Mar?" Joshua said, into the silence.

"That they couldn't train," Mar said.

Both Kris and Joshua went still. "You did not just say that," Kris said. "You did not."

"That cinches it," Joshua said.

Mar shook her head. "Before your time, both of you. He gave them a lot of problems. Refused everything but the bare minimum, if that. L.A. called out to us in Bay Area to see if we could help, but he dropped off our radar. Parents wouldn't talk to us. Whole family shut us out." Mar sighed. "Healing's so rare…"

"_Healing…?"_ Rafe looked stricken.

Vão froze, heard Dyl's breath hiss in, even as Ian sat down hard on the bed. They couldn't have heard that. Not again.

But then Vão saw Kris and Joshua's faces. "Kris? What's wrong?"

Kris and Joshua looked at each other again. Kris swallowed hard, tried to speak, got the words out on the second try. "You guys been following the news? The murders down here?"

"You mean those big fake Satanic things?" Dylan said.

"That's just the ones that hit the media," Joshua said. "There's been at least twenty that we're certain of, that the police haven't linked up. True count's maybe as high as thirty. And those big 'fake' Satanic ones…there was very real blood magic under them. Under all of them."

"Blood magic," Dylan said, with a fast look at Rafe and Vão. Ian's hands were in front of his face.

"Raising power by death," Kris said. "By spilling blood. Pain. Torture."

"Yeah," Ian said. "We know."

Rafe blew out a long breath. "You said a lure," Vão said, tense, fighting not to crack. He nodded towards the photo. "And an attack."

Kris exchanged another look with Joshua. "Cy," Kris said, "when did you set this show up?"

Cy looked startled. "Two, three weeks ago. But Mel only found _that_ just before we came down. 'Bout a week ago."

"I've seen the mail piles you guys have," Kris said. "How long would it have sat there before it got opened?"

Silence.

"You're reaching," Mar said, "and reaching way too far. That photo's bad blood magic, yes. But from San Francisco to New Orleans? That's a big area to cross."

"And here they are," Kris said.

"The killers are targeting untrained Gifted," Joshua said.

"Which Vão and Rafe are _not." _Mar nodded at the others around the room. "And which _we_ most definitely are not."

"That does put a damper on the hypothesis," Joshua said. "Almost." He stared down at the photo. "The bastards are really good at covering their tracks. They've been erasing their traces. Almost. Most of them. We caught a site earlier today that wasn't quite completely erased."

"Signature?" Mar said.

"Traces," Kris said, with another uneasy look at Joshua. "But what there was matches _that."_

"And there's no gender sign on this," Joshua said. "Just like the murder sites."

"A trace," Mar said, without inflection. "Which means it could match a lot of other signatures, too."

"_Shimá!"_

"_Mar, will you stop being mundane about it!"_

"I'm not being mundane about _that_," Mar overrode both Kris and Joshua, nodding at the photo. "I'm being _sensible_ about you two attaching it to your killer _here._ You're letting emotions get in the way of seeing the matter straight. You both have enough on your plate tracking that bastard down without you trying to split your energy and focus."

"I had a vision, _Shimá,_" Kris said, between clenched teeth. "Right when we were tracking the first trace-site. These guys—"

"Which could've been your pre-cog kicking in on _anything _and _nothing_ to do with your killer," Mar said.

"Mar, darlin', don't you dare —" Joshua started.

"_That's an order, Blades_. Stick to your assignment. We have ours, and we're sticking to _them. _Discussion _over."_

Vão had heard enough. The photo scared him. He didn't want to be sensible. He had found out more about Kris's and Joshua's reputation in the past year than he'd really wanted, and he wanted her here, with them, but…his gut was yelling at him to shut up, but…but…Mar was right. "Kris," Vão said, "you said untrained. That include kids?"

Kris glared. Joshua answered instead. "At least four that we know of."

Vão pushed away from the wall, caught Kris by the shoulders; they were tense under his grip. "_Oye, caro, olhe-me._" He tipped her chin up with his finger; she'd startled at the Portuguese. "Go nail that bastard's balls to the wall before he gets more kids_. _We'll be fine. We got guards. If all he's done is send a photo at us, he can't be too much trouble." Quieter, "Trust me, _caro._ We can deal."

Bravado, for his part, but under his hands, her tension eased somewhat. Rafe had added his own grip to Kris's shoulders, another rough hug.

"Just you and Josh guarding the city," Rafe said to her, but his gaze included Vão. "We got all _them._ And us. You think _that_'_s_ gonna get us without a fight, you're crazy."


	8. Voodoo Doll

A pleasant surprise, this time. Dodging crowd, parades, and revelers as they wandered down Bourbon Street, Frank and Joe discovered Duprè's was only a few blocks away — brightly lit, three-storied, with a smoked-glass front and stuffed with diners both inside and outside on the middle balcony, and the combined smells of barbecue and Cajun spice turned hunger into pure starvation. Grinning, Joe gazed up; part of him had expected to find Kris and Joshua waiting for them.

"This'll definitely do," Frank said, with satisfaction. "I have to admit, our little tagalong's got class after all."

"Well, yeah, she had a good teacher," Joe said. "I tried my best…" He fended off Frank's mock-punch.

"Hey! Frank, Joe!"

Someone on the far upper balcony waved, but disappeared before Joe got a good look. A minute later, Joshua appeared in a smaller doorway just to the right of the restaurant and waved them over; he was still in the eye-watering tie-dyed _dashiki_, and Mardi Gras beads had been woven into his short dreads. "You timed that right. My baby cousin dragged me out to look at the pretty parade and I just happened to look down. Come in, come up."

"Kris," Frank nodded at the restaurant, "promised us _that_."

"Oh, sure. Your choice, _chè_. We can wait a couple hours for a table — though my uncle might be able to shorten that a bit — or you can come up now and get his private cooking _and_ my aunt's. That's _his_ barbecue on the roof you smell. Ribs, crab and shrimp. Plus whatever else the rest of the crowd's brought over."

"You wait," Joe said to Frank. "I'm going upstairs."

"We don't want to intrude on your family," Frank started, but Joshua laughed.

"You and about a dozen others right now. Folks have been in and out all day. _Nainaine_ loves the company, especially since me and Kris are helping with dishes." Joshua grinned. "If you can imagine Kris doing dishes, that is."

Joe and Frank exchanged their own grins and followed Joshua up the stairs. A large black woman dressed in a flowery red mu-mu waited at the top door. "Joshua, what was that chaos storm all about?" She looked quizzically at Frank and Joe.

"Me and Kris's friends, _Nainaine,_" Joshua said. "Frank, Joe, this is my _nainaine _ — sorry, my aunt, Alma Duprè. Uncle Roy's roof-side with the barbecue. _Nainaine,_ Frank and Joe Hardy."

"Alma," the woman said firmly. "Any friend of my nephew is welcome here." She had a deep, rolling voice and silver-beaded cornrows; she eyed both brothers up and down, then ushered them in. Large, spacious, the living room smelled of cinnamon and was loaded with books, Catholic statuary, and bright paintings of saints. "Praise the Lord, your taste is improving, Joshua. These are better than those last scruffy ones you brought home."

"His what?" Joe said.

Joshua saw the brothers' faces, and burst into laughter. "Oh, no…God, no, _Nainaine_. Not like that. Godzilla would _kill_ me. However…" He batted eyes at both Frank and Joe, "I'd be willing to risk death if you're _curious."_

Frank stopped. Joe went still, not certain if he'd understood or how to react if he had. From Frank's expression, neither was he.

From across the living room, someone sighed and pushed up from a toile couch loaded with throw-pillows. "Stop it, Josh," Kris said, "you're gonna kill 'em from shock and I don't want to explain _that_ to their dad. Hey, guys. I thought I heard butterfly there yell at you from the gallery."

"Gallery?" Frank said, with an uncertain glance at Joshua. "You have an art studio here, too?"

"Who's Godzilla?" Joe said at the same time, focusing on the one bit of apparently harmless information.

"Gallery," Kris said, as Joshua opened his mouth. "Us Northern heathens call it a balcony, Frank. But here in _N'awlins,_ if it's supported by posts, it's a gallery. No posts, it's a balcony."

"Oookay," Frank said. "And Godzilla?"

Joshua was grinning. "My mate, back home."

Now Joe was thoroughly confused. "You call your wife _'Godzilla'?"_

Another pause. Biting her lip, Kris stared at the ground — her expression plainly _I did not just hear you say that —_ as laughter echoed from the kitchen, folks peering in with beers in their hands. Shaking her head, Alma patted Joe on the shoulder and moved past him towards the kitchen.

"Nope," Joshua said. "I call my _boyfriend_ 'Godzilla'. He's a Japanamaniac. I've tried to introduce him to good films, but he won't —"

"_Boyfriend?" _Joe and Frank said, at the same time.

Alma came back, handed both Frank and Joe bottles. "Here, _chè_. You'll need this, if you continue sparring with my nephew."

"Careful with that stuff," Kris said. "That's Alma's home-brew."

"And to answer your obvious un-asked question, beautiful," Joshua said to Joe, and now his voice had a definite edge, "yes, I am. Get used to it, darlin's, I'm queer and I'm here…"

"And no, he's not interested in either of you," Kris said firmly. "You're too straight and he knows it. He's just yanking your chain."

"That's not what I want to be ya—"

"_Joshua. _Be nice, Bayport's small town New England. Give 'em a break. And c'mon, big brothers, he lives in the Castro back in San Francisco, what did you expect?"

"A Cuban hippie with bad cigars?" Frank said.

"We got the tie-dyes right," Joe said, under his breath. He still hadn't moved; his face felt red-hot. Joshua was…and had called him…and had…and _what?_

Joshua laughed. "C'mon, guys," he said, gesturing them to follow. "Food's roof-side. And I'm sorry — things got tense this afternoon. You just came in on the wrong side of my tension release and pushed a couple buttons without realizing it. You reacted a lot better than Rafe did, I'll say that."

"Rafe — Karma's guitarist," Kris said, when Joe opened his mouth. "He nearly punched Josh out, that first time Josh tried pick-up lines on him."

"He _tried_ to punch me out_."_ Joshua swung onto the wrought-iron spiral staircase leading to the roof. "That's when he found out 'gay' could easily mean 'black-belt'."

This time, Joe laughed; Frank shook his head. "I saw Karma's in town," Frank said. "You're not guarding? I wondered if that's why you two were here."

The smile slid from Joshua's face; Kris looked away. "No," she said. "That was the tense part. Just leave it, okay?"

Frank eyed her, but only followed Joshua through the roof door. Joe, though, snagged Kris's arm when she started to follow. "Need to talk?"

She bowed her head. "You wouldn't understand the conversation."

"Try me." When she said nothing, Joe leaned into her line of sight. "Hey, c'mon, Tagalong. You know me better than that. Try me. I'll listen."

A long, studying pause. She leaned back against the metal railing. "Know anything about blood magic?" Quiet, almost an undertone.

Whatever he'd expected to hear, it wasn't that. Joe stared, unsure what she meant.

She nodded towards the living room. "What do you think of the paintings?"

Now he was confused again. Joe glanced back: the same bright paintings he'd seen when he'd come in. "Well…they're okay, I guess."

Kris sighed. "Like I said. C'mon. I'm starved, and you probably are, too."

From that point, the chatter stayed innocuous, catching up with their tagalong and the last year or so…though Joshua still flirted, teasing innuendoes that had both Frank and Joe blushing until Joe felt certain enough of the joke and comfortable enough to insult Joshua back — Joshua only laughed and handed him another beer, which was every bit as strong as Kris had hinted at. The food — crawfish, shrimp, some thick stew with seafood, ham and sausage that Alma called jambalaya, something else called "mack chow" that looked like corn and peppers — was smoky and spiced with saffron, filé and other things Joe couldn't identify and couldn't get enough of, and the view of Bourbon Street and the parades from the roof was unmatched. Even better, some of the guests were local Zydeco musicians, and had brought their instruments — fiddle, washboard, accordion — and were happy to discuss music from North to South and teach Joe how to play the washboard.

Best — several of Joshua's cousins were definitely female, definitely interested and definitely giggly when Joe flirted with _them_.

Finally, though, Alma started shooing folks out and grinned when Joe and Frank helped Kris and Joshua gather trash up. "If they do housework," Alma said to Kris, "I'm keeping them."

"They had their wallets stolen, _nainaine,_" Joshua said, wrestling a trash can down the stairs. "The usual Mardi Gras welcome committee."

"Oh no — your first time in New Orleans?" Alma said to Frank and Joe; Joe nodded, stopped when the room spun.

"We're okay," Frank said. "Dad's wiring us money."

"Still," Alma said. "You need fed, come around. Joshua told you about the open house? Good. A guest should never know what fasting means. You feel guilty, pass the favor to someone else in need."

"If that means cooking like yours," Frank said, grinning, "it's a deal."

"You don't know how much we eat," Joe said.

Alma nodded at Joshua. "I raised _him._ You can't be worse than that."

"She just wants another set of hands to help with clean-up," Kris said.

The beer had been strong; Joe staggered passing back through the living room to the door, and Frank wasn't much better. "You guys need someone to walk you back?" Joshua said, when they reached the door; Kris was in the kitchen, chattering with Alma over a cup of tea.

Joe took careful inner stock: no worse than any of their friends' parties. "We're okay. You're not that far." He happened to glance back, past Joshua's shoulder, and stopped. One of the paintings, the one in the corner by the back window, was of a Roman centurion, holding a cross aloft, but behind him was a tuxedo'd black man in a skull mask, sitting on coffins.

Just like the mural in Duveé's bar.

"Something wrong?" Joshua said.

It had been a great evening and their hosts wonderful. Joe decided he wasn't sober enough to bring it up. Probably just some New Orleans thing. He shook his head, followed Frank down the stairs and to the street. The parades and street-party were still going strong — if anything, even louder, even at this hour. Maybe it was just the beer or the good food, but Joe couldn't stop grinning, watching the street and color and life and flirting with passing women. Frank joined in, and they made a thorough nuisance of themselves with a group of giggly LSU girls they bumped into; the brothers were decidedly punchy by the time they made it back to their room. Frank fumbled with the key, shoved the door open, and fumbled the light switch on with a snap.

They both stopped in the doorway. Suddenly Joe was stone-sober.

Dangling from the light fixture, two voodoo dolls hung in nooses, jabbed through with long, large, red-headed pins.

Frank made a noise, stalked into the room, and yanked one of the dolls down — the ancient light fixture rattled, and, diverted for another moment, both stared up, waiting for it to either fall or settle. It finally settled, and Frank turned his attention back to the doll in his hand. "Someone's idea of a practical joke. Can you believe this?"

"Or a threat." Staring at the second doll, Joe recognized a piece of one of his shirts stabbed to it with the pin; his stomach rolled. "They're real — from what Thatcher's book said, I mean," he added hastily, when Frank gave him a _look._

"A threat. Right. Get real, Joe. From who?" Shaking his head, Frank turned the doll over in his hands. "The bellhop. He wanted to scare the idiot tourists, I bet. He'd have keys to all the rooms." Frank grinned suddenly. "Let's go show these to Thatcher. He'll get a kick out of 'em."

"Thatcher? Now?" Joe said, confused. "Why? It's late — he's an old man. He'll have gone to bed already. We have no clue where he is."

"He said he's doing a thesis on Duveé. He's probably still at that bar. C'mon." Frank jammed the doll into his jacket pocket and headed out the door.

Joe stared at the remaining doll. He wasn't about to touch it, not bare-handed. He had a vague memory of Kris claiming that silk insulated magic, and Frank going after her on the logic of "why-silk-not-polyester". Maybe voodoo wasn't real, but still…

Opening his suitcase, Joe snagged the first thing at hand — a handkerchief, and he grinned at remembering Aunt Gertrude's insistence that he and Frank pack them. He undid the noose at the light fixture, let the doll drop into the handkerchief, then balled it up, stuffed it into his jacket — he paused. Something inside the doll felt thin, stiff, edged — later. Joe shut the room door behind him, double-checked to make sure the lock held, then ran after Frank.

Arms crossed, Frank waited in the hall for Joe to catch up. "Look," Joe said, uneasy and trying not to show it, "let's go show these to Kris instead. She and Josh'll still be up —"

"They're all the way down Bourbon. Samedi's is just across the street. C'mon."

It was just after midnight, and the streets were still crowded, lit and noisy. They dodged between two floats and through a group of costumed Indians, down half a block to the alley —

"Wait…" Someone snagged Joe's arm.

Joe stopped dead. The woman who'd stolen their wallets.

Frank had turned. _"You."_

"You have a bad habit of disappearing," Joe said to her.

"Please…" She stared into Joe's face. "I don't have much time. They'll know. I can't let them know. I managed to get out. You must leave. Get out of New Orleans. They've got you targeted. You're next."

A chill threaded up Joe's back. "Who are 'they'?"

Her mouth worked; no sound came out for a long moment, until, "I can't — you don't know what she can do — what they're doing to — just — _leave, please!_" She choked off, started to turn.

Joe yanked her back around. "Who's got me targeted? What are you talking about?"

"I can't — they'll —"

"Either you spit it out," Frank said, "or we'll march you to the police and you can talk about it from a detention cell."

Her eyes went wide, staring behind them. She yanked free, fled down Bourbon Street, disappearing into the crowds and the night.

Frank grabbed Joe's arm before he could follow. "Don't. You'll make yourself a target for worse than pickpockets, this time of night."

"She said something when she took our wallets," Joe said. "She said she'd see me again." He hesitated; Frank was biting his lip as he stared after the woman. "She's in trouble, Frank."

Frank shook himself, then gave Joe one of those _looks._ "She's a thief. Of course she's in trouble. She was probably going to lead you right into a trap." Frank headed down the alley towards Samedi's. "C'mon, I want to catch Thatcher before the place closes."

This wasn't like Frank at all; he always tried to help, whether the help was wanted or not. And to let a thief get away…? Torn, Joe hesitated, staring down the street: no sign of her now. With a sigh, he followed his brother. Joe was very aware of the wrapped-up voodoo doll in his jacket; it felt hot, then cold, then hot again, no matter how hard he told his imagination to shut up. He did not want to go into that club. He did not want to see Duveé again.

No sooner had they crossed the threshold when a big, muscled bouncer blocked their path. "We're closed."

"It's all right, they're with me," said a voice — Thatcher, still at the same table as before; the bouncer stepped aside. "I've been expecting them. Come along, join me." Thatcher nodded at the brothers as they drew closer. "Please, sit down."

"You said you were expecting us?" Frank said, as he sat down.

Joe remained standing. Picture cards were laid out on the table; they reminded him of Tarot cards, but the pictures were different, angular, grotesque, ugly. "We weren't expecting us until about a minute ago."

"The cards told me." Smiling, Thatcher nodded at the cards. "I was concerned. Their message is not quite clear. Rather frightening."

Frank and Joe exchanged a look. "The cards told you," Frank said, as Joe finally sat down.

"Yes. Tarot cards. You can buy them in any curiosity shop on Bourbon Street, by the dozen. But not like these cards. These are over a hundred years old." Thatcher's gaze rested on Frank. "I won them in a high stakes poker game. My wager was five thousand dollars."

"You said these cards told you about us," Frank said, scowling.

"This one." Thatcher tapped an image of a masked skeleton holding two swords. "A challenge presented, unexpected visitors bearing news. Two swords, two visitors, connected by bones — brothers." Thatcher's voice was low, even, rhythmic. "And here…" another tap, this one a young man walking off a cliff, "the Fool. He's a pawn. Expendable. And then…this one…" His hand rested on another, a gaunt skeleton in tattered robes, standing with an outstretched arm perched with a raven, a burial cross behind it with a setting sun staining the card in deep scarlet and black.

"Yes?" Joe said, before he could stop himself.

Thatcher's gaze was steady. "Death. A burial. The blood red line, an extinguished life being lowered into the ground."

"Swell," Joe muttered, unnerved.

Frank gave Joe a brief glare, then pulled the voodoo doll from his pocket, laid it on the table. "We got these. They were hanging in our hotel room, in nooses."

Thatcher raised an eyebrow. "Just one?"

"I got one, too." Joe tried to play it off, no big deal. "Didn't want to feel left out."

"You still have it?"

The man's gaze made Joe uneasy. Why did that matter? "I threw it away. It's just tourist trash."

"In the world of the unseen, it is hard to say what is real…and what is fake." Thatcher laid a finger on the doll, then drew out a jackknife, picked up the doll and ripped open the seams. Inside…

…Frank's driver's license, only the picture half, splattered with rust-brown, the eyes marked out, cuts grooved deeply across the picture. Joe swallowed; Frank stared.

"Not tourist trash," Thatcher said. "It is very real. Doll magic, blood magic, very potent. Using your picture, destroying the eyes — making you blind." Quieter, "You were right to bring this to me. I have only seen one like it before, in Haiti. It was hanging over the door of a man lying within, slowly dying. He continued, in torment, until death…was a release."

"Native superstition," Joe said. Frank still stared at the ripped-open doll

"The man was a colleague of mine from London," Thatcher said coldly.

"But why?" Joe said. "Why us? We're just a couple tourists. We don't know anyone here."

"We spoke with that girl outside," Frank lowered his voice, "the one who stole our wallets. She warned us to get out town." Another quick glance at Joe. "She said they were targeting us. Targeting Joe."

Thatcher scowled. "Yes. I know her. She approached me for help. Claire, her name is. She was following her sister, and got involved with Duveé. She got in deeper than she intended, I fear." He scowled towards the stage, then stood, gathered up the cards and doll. "Come. We must talk, but not here."

He strode out the door; Frank shoved to his feet and followed, Joe at his heels. For an old man, Thatcher walked fast, forcing Frank and Joe to nearly run to keep up.

Thatcher glanced around at the crowds, lowered his voice. "You know of the murders? The occult killings?"

That brought Joe to a dead stop. _"Murders?"_

"They've been all over your news."

"We're been busy helping Dad," Frank said. "We haven't had much time for TV."

"Dreadful things," Thatcher said. "Seven, so far. The last was just before Mardi Gras. The police claim it is a Satanic cult."

Joe barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Both Mar and Dad had ranted long and loud to the Bayport PTA about those same idiotic assumptions, when vandals had attacked Bayport High a couple years ago.

"The police do not wish to admit the truth," Thatcher said. "They do not want to disrupt the Mardi Gras or anger those in power. But murders are obviously connected with black magic. With Voodoo. The evidence makes that quite clear."

"Evidence." Joe didn't like where this was going. Why was Thatcher telling two strangers about this?

"Markings on the bodies," Thatcher said. "Torture. Ritual sacrifice. Symbols found at the scene, the patterns of binding, and such. I have seen such things before."

And Kris had asked him about blood magic. But it made no sense — why would their little tagalong be involved with something like that?. Unless…Joe shivered. Talking about this here, on the dark street, surrounded by costumed revelers and raucous rag-time trumpet bands…it was hard to think, hard to focus…

"So you're working with the police?" Frank said.

"I have been watching Duveé for days now. He holds all the hallmarks of a Voodoo _houngan, _a high priest of black magic trained in the dark forces. He has a presence. A power. The hold he has over Claire — her sister disappeared after working for Duveé, and I'm positive he made Claire steal your wallets." Thatcher's gaze rested on Joe. "Your father, the detective. You said you were helping him. So you follow his path?"

Odd phrasing. Joe nodded. "We help him out."

"We're in Criminology in college," Frank added. "We've solved a few things ourselves, too."

Smiling, Thatcher stepped out of the way of a passing group of teenagers and into the shelter of a doorway. "That may be enough of a threat, if the killer knows you are in town. And from those dolls, they do. They fear your father's interference." Thatcher paused, his gaze on the crowd. "I would normally hesitate to ask strangers for assistance, but for two young men as capable as yourselves, with your experience and connections…"

"We'd be glad to help," Frank said, and Joe stared at his brother.

"Splendid!" Thatcher lowered his voice, calm, measured, his clipped London accent hypnotic. "There is a warehouse near the river docks. Duveé owns it, and he goes to it at all odd hours. However, I am only one old man. I hesitate to make my suspicions public without more proof, or to go there alone. But if you could come with me…"

"No," Joe said.

Thatcher looked taken aback. "No?"

Frank opened his mouth; Joe grabbed his arm, pulled him a short distance away with a curt, "Excuse us a minute" to Thatcher. "Look, _brother,_" Joe said, when they were just out of casual earshot, "we are here for Mardi Gras. For _vacation._ Getting involved with a serial killer is _not_ what Dad had in mind!"

"Dad would help," Frank said, from clenched teeth. "You know he would. He'd go after this in a heartbeat. And you're refusing to help — to stop _murder._"

"Dad was an NYPD cop," Joe snapped. "And I'm not refusing. I'm turning down a total stranger who has no proof of _anything_ he's claimed. Frank, you're going just on this guy's say-so. That's not like you!"

"He's working for the cops!"

"Fine, let's trot him over to the police station and check!"

"He's an Oxford professor and a respected author. Joe, come on, he's not going to lie to us!"

"I understand if you do not wish to help," Thatcher broke in, loud enough to make them both turn. "The killings have been very brutal." His gaze was on Joe again. "Fear can be a powerful deterrent."

Frank sighed. "We'll help, Professor. We're not scared." Even without Frank's glare, Joe plainly heard "_coward"_ under Frank's tone; Frank gripped Joe's shoulder hard, a silent _discussion-over_, Older Brother Taking Charge…

Joe yanked away. "I said _no_. You want to explain to Dad why you did something so stupid, you do it alone." He stalked off, then broke into a half-run back down Bourbon Street, ignoring Frank calling out after him. Joe didn't have any idea where he was going, just _away. _He shoved his hands in his pockets, halted. The voodoo doll.

He'd suggested to Frank that they take the things to Kris and Joshua, and Frank had blown him off. Joe looked around, got his bearings, took off again at a fast walk. He didn't know if they'd still be awake, but he would pound on the door until they let him in.

Three blocks, four. Joe slowed, a bit winded and tired — he checked his watch, just after 1 AM. The crowds had thinned some; the die-hard partiers were out now, and none immediately near him. He leaned against a nearby gallery post to catch his breath — then raised his head. Noise nearby, from a walled-in garden lot; it sounded like a muffled scream. The green wooden gate creaked, slightly ajar.

Probably just over-enthusiastic bead-gatherers. Joe glanced towards it. It was late. He was tired, and he didn't want to interrupt anyone's party. Still…

Joe pushed away from the post, over to the gate, pulled it open — and froze.

The pickpocket, Claire, was there, sprawled face-up on a cobbled garden-walk, blood soaking the front of her dress and pooling under her. Her throat was slashed wide open, her hands and feet bound with black cord, her dress pulled up and exposing her from waist down. Her hands were clenched around a voodoo doll.

Beside her on the bricks, reproach and plea at once, two wallets.


	9. Murder

Maybe it was the strange sleeping space — a sleeping bag on Alma and Roy's floor. Maybe it was the continual lights flickering through the windows from the all-hours party outside. More likely, though, it was the cumulative effects of all the murder sites: remnants of rape and tortured death made for nightmares. Unable to sleep, Kris tossed and turned for a while, finally gave up and pulled on her jeans. She'd go sit on the gallery a while.

"I can't sleep either," Joshua murmured. He was stretched out on the couch, looking just as haggard as she felt. "I wasn't keeping you awake?"

"Didn't even know you were up." Kris padded out to the kitchen, through the gallery doors to the cool night. Even now, there were people on the street; during Mardi Gras, the Quarter never slept. But then the flickering lights _really_ caught her attention. _"Josh!"_

Yawning, Joshua came into the kitchen. "What — police lights?" He leaned over the railing. "Jesus _wept — three_ cop cars? And an _ambulance?_" Yelling for Alma, he stumbled back into the living room with Kris at his heels. Joshua pulled their holsters from the special padlocked duffel bag, handed Kris hers as Alma came in. "We're checking it, _nainaine_."

Kris saw Alma's expression…and more. She and Joshua weren't the only ones armed. "You couldn't sleep, either," Kris said to her.

"St. Joan d'Arc," Alma said. "She gave warning. Go fully armed and aware, Blades."

The glowing painting of St. Joan caught Kris's eye: St. Joan, the warrior who avenged women and children. "Dear gods," Kris said.

"Haul it, partner," Joshua said.

They swung down the stairs and onto the street, Joshua invoking the small magic that allowed them and — more importantly — their guns to go unnoticed. They skirted the edges of the crowd, slowly working their way towards the scene. Even at this distance, the horror, death, and pain beat against Kris's shields — but then sharper, immediate, and _familiar_ distress caught her attention and bit of Empathic Gift.

Her attention swung. "That's _Joe!"_

Joe sat in the back of a cop car at the edge of the crowd. The car-door was open; Joe was bent over his knees, half-in, half-out of the car, an orange blanket around him and his head in his hands. A cop stood over him, writing on a report-board, but looked up as Kris and Joshua approached.

"He's our friend, officer," Kris said. "We were up there and saw the lights."

"My aunt and uncle own Duprè's, sir, right there," Joshua said, coming up behind her. "Alma and Roy Duprè. Joe's with us."

The cop nodded, but stayed near, watching.

"Joe?" Kris touched his shoulder; he didn't respond, his face pale, haggard. Bracing herself, fearing the answer, she knelt down. "Hey, big brother. Where's Frank?"

"He went with Thatcher." Joe didn't seem to see her. Eyes closed, he breathed through his hands. "She tried to warn us. They killed her. The bastard _killed_ her._"_

Joe, cursing. Not good.

"Stay here," Joshua said to her, with a glance at the cop. "Talk him down. I'm on it."

Kris eyed Joe for a moment. He didn't seem to be hurt. She reached out with a small shock of Empathy, and shook him. _"Joe."_

He startled and this time _saw_ her.

"_Where. Is. Frank?"_

"I — I don't know. The warehouse…maybe…" Joe breathed out, long, shaky. "Sorry. We fought. I came out here to find you. He's with Thatcher."

"That's not him?" Kris nodded towards the police ribbon, lights, and cops.

His eyes glassy, Joe shook his head. Kris breathed out.

"_Mam'zelle?"_ the officer said; Kris looked up. "He knows you. You taking charge of him?" She nodded; the cop looked relieved. "Thank you." Softer, "He's the one that found the body. Go easy on him, _chè_. He's had a bad hour."

It was that special cop "bad". Joshua was coming back towards them; Kris got a grip on Joe's arm, hauled him to his feet. He looked surprised, but didn't resist. "C'mon, big brother," Kris said. "We're getting you out of this. Move." She steered him towards the restaurant.

Joshua caught up. "I couldn't get in. They kept spotting me and chasing me off."

"_Spotting_ you? But —"

"Yeah," Joshua said. "Exactly."

Joe had recovered enough to shake off her grip, but still didn't resist as Kris pushed him gently towards the stairs to the apartment. Joshua led them in; Alma opened her mouth on seeing Joe, then took another look, steered Joe to the kitchen and into a chair, then snagged a bottle from the counter, poured a shot and set it in front of Joe.

"Take care of him for a bit, please," Kris said to Alma. To Joshua, "Let's both try. You run flashy sparkly decoy, maybe they'll let a little mouse sneak by."

Joshua's grin had no humor. "And that's why you're my partner."

Joe looked up. _"You're going back out there?"_

Kris met his gaze, settled on the short answer. "Yes." And followed Joshua.

Even with Joshua running decoy — Kris _felt_ the suspicious attention of the cops snap towards him, but she also felt the magic tug that attention back towards her as she edged in. She concentrated on being small, harmless, and not worth the time, and finally got close enough to see the body.

Sensing out the older sites hadn't prepared her for this; Kris gagged, clenched her jaw against the nausea. Female. Bound at the wrists and feet, gagged with duct tape. White. Brunette, long curled hair; the face looked naggingly familiar. Mid-twenties, if that. In a white dress, throat slashed, blood soaking down the front — the killer had to have gotten splattered. The woman's hands were clenched around a crude voodoo doll, the tourist-trash sold by the thousands in the Quarter. On the brick wall, drawn in blood and chalk, a large upside-down pentagram — despite the nausea, Kris scowled. That alone was evidence that the killer wasn't Satanic and was laying false trail.

But the smaller markings around the body, those were another story. Add to it the definite stink of blood-magic, and worse…

Kris edged closer to the police tape, right at the corner of the gate, and relaxed against the ironwork, let her vision go unfocused. But something kept diverting her, shunting her aside as she tried to get to the bones of the magic; pain and terror pounded against her, screaming its horror out.

If Joe had walked straight into it — untrained and no shields — no wonder he'd gone into shock.

But to actively shunt her aside? That couldn't be set. That had to be controlled, real-time.

She re-focused, scanned the garden area, the crowd, cops, and train-wreck-gazers. A few other Gifted, one skirting the back of the crowd, another towards the front — but…there, in the middle. That was another story: a thick-muscled black man in a black t-shirt, Mardi Gras beads, and worn jeans. Bald, flattened nose, a splatter of dark moles on his right cheek. Major shields glowed around the man, to her mage-sight — that in itself wasn't suspicious; NOLA Center wasn't that far away. But here…now?

The man was scowling at Joshua, who was playing the thin, loud line between _drunk-rubber-necker_ and _suspicious-arrestable-nuisance_. Kris reached a cautious mental hand out. If she could get signature from the man, she might be able to rule him out…

The man startled, jerked around to scan the crowd. Kris ducked behind a knot of costumed revelers, waited for a heart-pounding twenty-count, then peered around the partiers. The man was back to watching Joshua, but now there was a set to his stance…

She didn't dare try for his signature again, not with him that suspicious and on-guard, not if he was likely the killer, not here in a crowd full of innocents. She fixed his face in her memory, then turned back to the murder scene.

Her choice: attempt to sense the scene out and risk catching the killer's attention again — if that was the killer and not just someone watching flamboyant Joshua — or play it safe and not give the game away.

Which was no choice at all.

She settled back against the ironwork, forced herself to relax, and reached out to the stinking, slimy, blood-magic mess. It took several attempts of creeping in, careful and quiet as a mouse, bit by bit…

…and this time…

She clamped down sudden, savage triumph. _Full signature._

Had Joe _interrupted_ the killer, then? Could he have _seen —_ Kris laid a hand against the cobbles, to try to touch-read back.

The energy jerked, a sharp shift of attention —

It _slammed _into her face.

Gasping, she caught herself before she collapsed, stumbled from the wall and into the crowd. She _felt_ the eyes seeking her; her hand stayed tight on the gun as she staggered away. By the time she reached the stairwell door, her head was pounding, and she was near-blind from the spiky migraine-halos. Panting, she collapsed on the stairs; Joshua came through a moment later.

"You okay?" he said.

"No," Kris croaked, getting more nauseated by the moment. "Get undercover. I'm not saying anything with _that_ out there." She swallowed bile down. "I think our killer was watching."

"I _know_ he was." Joshua helped her up the stairs, pounded on the door; she heard muffled words, then it creaked open. She staggered past Alma, halted.

Swaying on his feet, his face set, Joe stood between kitchen and living room. "I want to know what's going on. I want to know why you two are in New Orleans. I want the truth, Tag."

Kris looked at him through fogged, haloed vision, then stumbled through the living room to the bathroom and toilet —

— and promptly threw up.

The pounding migraine didn't ease one bit. Shaking, sweating, she sat back on her haunches; there was heated conversation in the hallway, but she couldn't tell who. Someone shoved a bottle of neon-green Gatorade into her hands, and she took a swallow to rinse her mouth, spat it out into the toilet, then took another swallow for real, and another. Her shaking gradually quieted, and she made it to her feet. Joshua was right there, helped her stagger back to the kitchen and into a chair, handed her two Demerol tablets — the only thing that worked when the migraines hit this level. Alma turned off the lights, lit a couple candles on the counter behind Kris, then handed Kris a washcloth damp with hot water.

"Well?" Joshua said to her.

Kris held the hot washcloth against her temples; even the dim light from the candles hurt. But Demerol kicked in fast and made her loopy — she had to get the info out before it did. _"Full signature,"_ she said, teeth clenched; Joshua's breath hissed in. "Yeah. And bad — really bad. I think the killer got interrupted —" she glanced at Joe, who was slowly sitting down, "— but still no gender-trace. Tried to touch-read back, got nailed. Magic-drain, burn out. Usual M.O. Young, white, holding a tourist-trash voodoo doll. Black cord. Gagged with duct tape. Throat slashed. Big bloody pentagram for show, but there was something weird near the body. A cross with a couple coffin-shapes…"

"Wait." Alma went over to the book stacks, pulled one out, and set it in front of Kris, opened to a page depicting voodoo _vévés_. "This?"

Kris laid a finger on one. "That one. It's closest, anyway."

"Saint Expedite," Alma said. "You may know him as Baron Samedi."

Kris blinked at her, then the world swayed, and she dropped her head to her arm. "Ow."

"Great, just great." Joshua collapsed to a chair. "They're invoking Expedite with their nonsense. Just what we need."

"Who?" Joe said, his tone distinctly odd.

Three pairs of eyes looked up. Joe looked unsure, uncertain…

"The painting in the corner." Joshua jerked his head. "Baron Saturday, if you want the usual Hollywood voodoo name. The one you were ogling earlier, when I thought you were admiring me."

"Josh," Kris said.

"He's asking the questions," Joshua said, "so he's ready for the answers."

"_Voodoo?" _Joe shoved to his feet, backed away. "You people are into _voodoo?"_

"Joe," Joshua said, cold, sharp steel, "_sit. Down."_

Someone pounded on the door; everyone jumped. Joshua glared at Kris to make sure she remained seated, then yanked his .45 out, holding it ready as he approached the door. But Kris's shields were now Demerol-gone, and the person out there — she couldn't mistake that solid personality for anyone else.

"It's Frank," she said.

Joe stared. Joshua slid his gun back in the holster. "Wonderful," Joshua said, to no one in particular. "Let's get all the clueless white boys in one place." He yanked the door open. "Hi, Frank, how're you doing, so nice to see you, I'm sorry I didn't answer the door immediately on your first knock, it is after two a-effin'-em after all, but come on in, your brother's over there and now we can get it all over with at once."

Frank's arm was still raised mid-pound; he blinked, lowered it. "Uh, yeah, hi."

"Over there." Joshua jerked his head towards the kitchen. "Freakin' out over the Voodoo painting."

"Voodoo?" Frank said, as he came into the kitchen. "You people believe that stuff, too?"

Silence.

"Yeah, that'll do it," Kris said to the ceiling.

"Oh, _so_ wonderful," Joshua said, at the same time. "One shit-head freaking out, the other spewing clueless racist condescension. Really nice. You two take the cake."

Frank went still; Joe's stare moved from Kris to Joshua. "Pardon me?" Frank said, open bewilderment.

"You missed his line." Kris nodded at Joe. "You both shoved your feet into your collective mouths this time. Get yourselves out of it."

"_Tag…"_

"Try 'foot up your collective _asses," _Joshua snarled. "You two come in here, take our hospitality and make nice with the smilin' black people, then you have the nerve to come pounding on our door and belittle _our religion_ just because it's something your tiny white heads can't wrap around? You dare insult those _helping _you?"

"I came here looking for my _brother_," Frank snapped. "You have a murder outside your door, you know that? You even _care?_ I saw that and no one would talk, no one would tell me where or who and I came up here _praying_ he was with you and you —"

"I've just spent the last _hour_ with that murder — _you_ started the insults, not me."

"_You're _the one worshipping the skeleton," Joe snarled, "not _us."_

"There will be peace," Alma said.

The words dropped into the room, stilled it.

"You are scared," Alma said, to Joshua. "Sit. Find your center. And calm down." Then to the room, "All of you, scared. It is making you do and say things that you would not otherwise. Sit down, all of you."

Arms crossed, Joshua stared at the ceiling; Kris focused on the table, unable to look at Frank and Joe. "Sorry, Alma," Kris muttered; she felt weighted with exhaustion and the drug.

"You are on Demerol," Alma said. "I saw what my nephew gave you. You get a pass. Not much of one, though."

"_Demerol?"_ Frank said, staring at Kris.

"Ignorance does not equal racism," Alma said to Joshua. "It contributes, but does not _equal._ I heard what Hawk said earlier. Small town New England, she said?"

"Bayport, Massachusetts," Joe said, scowling.

Alma shrugged. "I've never heard of it. I only know of that uptight stick on _M*A*S*H_ when I hear 'Massachusetts'. Is that what your culture is, opera music and elitist snobbery?"

Frank and Joe exchanged looks, both plainly still confused and angry. Frank shook his head. "I'm not getting this. When were we _racist?_ I came here looking for Joe, and next thing I know, we're getting cussed out —"

"One moment, _chè,_ please," Alma said gently, in her quiet, deep voice. Then, to Joshua, "So. Does that make them hateful, that I know nothing of their town? Do they insult me because I am surprised that they act otherwise? If all they know of Voodoo is what they see from Hollywood, where are they to learn otherwise?" Her gaze moved to Kris. "And why would they want to learn if they get belittled for that ignorance?"

"Wait a minute," Frank said. _"That's_ what this is about? _Voodoo?_ But that's just —"

"Voodoo is a _religion,_" Alma overrode him. "It is a hard path, one of healing and service. It is not the zombies and dolls that Hollywood claims for bad movies. It is not what you see on the streets or sold for tourists. It is not superstition. And…it is _my_ religion, and I am a good Catholic. It is just as deep and rooted and real as whatever yours is." Her tone sharpened, just a touch. "Mind, I do not excuse your insulting my religion. I only excuse your ignorance of it."

Frank stared at the table; arms crossed, Joe looked away.

Kris watched their faces; from Frank's expression, he wasn't convinced. "Alma's a Voodoo priestess —"

"Queen," Joshua said.

"— Voodoo Queen, sorry —"

"Funny, I just call myself Alma. I have enough problems, without getting fake royalty involved."

Kris sighed. "Sorry. Frank, what you said. Imagine me going into First United and going 'you people believe in _that?'_"

At that, Frank looked up. "You kinda did, Tagalong."

"Um…yeah," Kris said, flushing; he would remember that. "And remember the lecture Mar and your dad gave me after. Turn it around. They were right, on all sides."

Shaking his head, not looking at any of them, Joe shoved away, headed for the door — Joshua intercepted him. "Sit down, Joe. We think the killer is still at the scene."

"Answer me one question." Joe raised his head, fierce, defiant. "The skeleton. What is it, really? _Who_ is it?"

"We told you. You weren't _listening!"_

"Joshua," Alma said, and Joshua threw his hands up, walked to the other side of the room.

Arms crossed, Joe didn't move.

"Baron Saturday," Alma said. "Here, Saint Expedite. Samedi, he is sometimes called. The spirit of death and healing."

"_You worship death?"_

Now Alma's voice held compassion. "No. Not worship. There are many such— look around, you see their images. They are messengers only. Saints. Worship is reserved for The One through Jesus. The Power Above All Powers. Expedite is rude, crude, debauched — he is much around at Mardi Gras because of the drunken sex, in fact."

"Like any good soldier," Joshua said.

Alma grinned. "Yes. That. He grants easeful death, free of pain. He guides the dead to the world after."

Joe looked away, his stance still stiff, still unmoving.

"He's not evil, Joe," Kris said, wondering at his reaction. "Hollywood says he is because they want a Big Black Boogyman for the White Heroes to fight. But Death's not evil. It just _is._"

"And if you think _we're_ evil…" Joshua growled. "You wonder why I'm calling you _racist_ when you're acting like this?"

"Josh, he walked right into that mess below and then heard me ID one of the marks around the body as Samedi's," Kris said. "The cop said he found the body. So cut him a break. Shock's the least of his problems at the moment."

"Wait a minute — what were you doing a murder scene?" Frank stared at Kris.

Joshua sighed. "And he's Gifted, untrained, and un-shielded — gah. All right, all right. I'm an idiot. Joe —"

Joe's gaze moved from Joshua to Kris. "You're hunting the serial killer."

Kris leaned back in her chair. "See?" she said to Joshua. "They're intelligent."

"Gifted?" Frank said at the same time. "Tag, you're still playing at that…?" Everyone's gazes swung on him; he shut up. But his mouth was a tight line, as if he was biting his words back.

"One of them is, anyway," Kris amended, sighing.

"Don't you start," Frank snapped. "Voodoo's the local Catholic. Okay, I get that. And I'm sorry." That, with a sigh, to Alma. "We didn't know, you're right. I was an idiot." Now Frank glared back at Kris. "But religion is not the same. You're playing the spooky stuff when real people are getting _killed —"_

"Um, Frank," Joe looked from Kris to Joshua to Alma and back, "I don't think —"

"Joe, she's given us this psychic boogyman line for years, and she never has_ proof!"_

That tore it. "Josh?" Kris said, getting up to stagger to the sink.

"Yeah?"

"Do it."

"Do _what?"_ Frank said.

"My apologies, _Nainaine,_" Joshua murmured. "Frank, hold out your hands."

"_What?"_

"Hold. Out. Your. Hands." Joshua held his cupped hands out. "Like this." He shrugged at Kris's look. "I don't want to hurt the tablecloth. It was Grandmama's."

"Okay," Frank snapped, "fine." He held out his hands.

The air in front of him burst into fire.

Frank shoved away, nearly fell over Joe in his scramble back, but Joe caught him, hauled him up. Wide-eyed, the two backed up until they hit the wall.

Sparks had caught the tablecloth — Kris splashed a glass of water on it, soaked it down.

"Now," Joshua leaned heavily on a chair as the fire burned in mid-air, and his words slurred with effort, "anything in your hands? Anything in front of you? Did I come near you? Did I have any time or opportunity or _reason_ to prepare that ahead of time? Is there _any_ way I could do that _normally?"_

"Damp it, please, Joshua," Alma said. "Before the smoke detectors go off."

"Nothing burning but hydrogen and methane," Joshua said. But the fire cut off as suddenly as it had come, leaving only a curl of smoke and an odd wood-metal smell in the air. Sweating, Joshua collapsed into a chair; Kris shoved a bottle of Gatorade at him, and he downed half of it in one swallow.

"Well?" Kris said to Frank and Joe, both standing in total stillness against the wall.

Silence.

"When you've ruled out the impossible," Joshua said, mouth twitching, "whatever's left, however improbable, is the truth."

"Doyle believed in fairies, too," Frank snapped, then caught himself.

"I left my wings in my other suit," Joshua said.

Slowly Frank came back over to the table, passed his hands through the spot the fire had been, rubbed his fingers together as if testing for anything that could explain it, then touched the tablecloth…and finally sat down with a long exhale of air.

Joe, though, hadn't moved, still wide-eyed, still breathing hard. Kris snagged his arm, pulled him towards the table to sit.

"Remind me to never, ever, get on your bad side, Tag," Joe breathed.

Kris sighed. "Big brother, come on." When he looked at her, she held the gaze. "You're scared. I'm scared. We all are. You two have stepped into a huge, deadly mess —"

"Again," Frank breathed, head in his hands. "Wonderful."

"Target," Joe murmured. "That's what she said. I'm a target. The — that woman."

"— and you hit it. Me and Josh are tracking that killer. You've seen the news? You know about the serial killer down here?"

"Yeah," Frank said. "We found out."

"You're working with the _cops?"_ Joe said, with an edge of sarcasm. That, at least, sounded like Joe, not a shell-shocked zombie.

"No," Joshua said. He looked at Kris. "The Center here in New Orleans — do they know…?"

"They know enough," Kris said. It was getting hard to think, past the Demerol and the exhaustion; she glanced up at the clock. Well after three AM. "At least, I told them enough, a while back. Now whether they _believe_ it…"

"I do," Joe said softly. Frank only looked away.

"I asked them to come here," Alma said, to Frank and Joe. "Kris and Joshua are our hunters. Blades. The killers use the Gifts. Real magic, as what Joshua flashed at you. They raise blood magic. Power through pain. Torture. They target the Gifted, the untrained, the innocent." Joe raised his head; Alma didn't seem to notice. "The ones on TV are only the ones the police have connected, the flashy ones meant to be discovered, to spread fear. The real count's at least twenty, possibly as many as thirty. Or more."

"How do we do it?" Joe said, to Frank. "How do we keep getting ourselves into these situations?"

"It's a gift," Frank said dryly. "Wonder what Thatcher would make of this."

"I still don't know what _I_ make of it."

"Y'know," Kris said slowly, to Joe, "you kept saying that, down there. I didn't think — never mind. Okay. Who's Thatcher?"

"Orrin Thatcher," Frank said. "He wrote that book you hated so much. _Black Science in the Twentieth Century._" He looked away. "The one I kept teasing you about."

Kris thumped the table in front of Frank. "Hey. Don't. Don't beat yourself up, big brother. Keep on being skeptical and mundane. _Please. _ It's your best defense, and we need to stay grounded, here."

"The fairies need the hard science, too, otherwise we're aerodynamically impossible," Joshua said. Unexpectedly, Frank grinned — though it looked as exhausted and weary as Kris felt at the moment.

"Okay," Kris said. "So what's that guy got to do with this?"

"More important question, partner," Joshua said. "What were you doing down there, Joe? You left here, then we find you at a murder scene next door, and you're showing every sign of magic-shock."

Joe pulled something wrapped in a handkerchief from his pocket, laid it on the table. "These were hanging in our room." He tugged at the corner of the handkerchief, as if he couldn't bear to touch its contents, pulled it away.

Kris bit back a curse — a large, tourist-trash voodoo doll, same as what the woman had in her hands below, a large red-headed pin through its head, pinning a torn piece of shirt to it. Worse…

"You told Thatcher you threw it away," Frank said.

Joe didn't answer.

"Dear God," Joshua said. "Kris, it's _full signature."_

"It matches the scene downstairs." Kris's head sank into her hands. _"Fuck."_

Silence again.

"I think this is where we ask for an explanation." Joe's voice shook.

"An explanation we'll _understand,"_ Frank said.

Kris and Joshua exchanged a glance; Kris shook her head. She wasn't un-drugged enough to handle it. "Okay," Joshua said. "Signature — it's unique to each Gifted. A magic fingerprint. Every bit of magic cast will have the person's signature, unless he takes care to wipe it. With me so far?"

Both Frank and Joe nodded. But before Joshua went on, Joe was speaking, low, tense. "So you're saying whoever did _that_ killed the girl downstairs."

"Yeah," Kris said.

"And it's the same sig as the photo — no, _don't." _Joshua snapped, full command voice; it stopped Kris mid-rise, and she sank back in her chair. "You call Mar…" Joshua glanced up at the clock, "…correction, you call Mar _now,_ she'll have your head. And she won't listen, you heard her. They've already made up their minds about you because of Vão and Rafe. You calling them with this is just going to play into the hysterical female crap."

"What photo?" Frank said.

"Vão _and_ Rafe? You mean Karma?" Joe said at the same time, with a slight grin. "You didn't tell us about _that_ this afternoon, Tag."

Kris sighed. She really didn't want to go into all that right now.

"It gets worse." Joshua nodded at the doll. "It's a lure. A strong one. And targeted." He lifted his gaze to Joe. "I'd say you're next on our killers' list."

"Wonderful," Joe muttered.

"Y'know," Frank sounded nettled, "I guessed _that_ without magic. We get the dolls, and the girl who tries to warn us ends up dead —"

"Children," Alma broke in, gently, "it is after three A.M. Hawk is under Demerol, and you're all exhausted magically and, more important, _physically. _ Let all this go until morning, go at it with fresh minds. Joshua, do you have enough left to help me ward that off and out of the way?"

"That's our cue to leave," Frank murmured to Joe.

"No," Alma said. "You will stay here. I have extra sleeping bags. You heard Joshua. The killer is on the streets tonight, and left his mark on our doorstep. He is aware of his hunters." She smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Don't expect God to do what common sense and your own hands can handle."


	10. Join the Party

The show wasn't until Thursday; that left them with four whole days to enjoy Mardi Gras. Even with the promo ops and interviews Cy had arranged, the band still had plenty of free time on their hands, and they were enjoying it to the hilt.

The narrow streets were bright with flags and lights, neon, blinking, bright-colored and crowded with costumed revelers, floats, drunk women and big tits. Watching the revelers and the current parade, Vão paused on Bourbon Street, grinning as a wandering jazz band swung out a fast-tempo mashup of Dixieland, Zydeco and blues. Rafe and Nathaniel had dragged him along, and for once, Vão was glad he'd caved in.

By unspoken agreement, none of them discussed Mar's ID of Nathaniel — though Nathaniel kept giving the other two odd looks, as if he wanted to say something, but then decided against it. It was his private business, though; Vão wasn't about to pry.

Grinning, Rafe nudged him, pointed with his chin, and Vão burst into laughter — a skeleton-costume wandered by, in top hat, tuxedo, cane and a huge fake penis dangling from the front of the costume. The skeleton tipped his hat at them; the man was grinning beneath the mask.

"Mine's bigger," Rafe said, and the skeleton laughed, shook Rafe's hand, and wandered on.

"Yeah, right," Vão said. "You use three pairs of socks stuffed down your jeans. Little girl's sizes."

Rafe laughed, stumbled against Nathaniel in drunken hilarity. Vão glanced back. Their bodyguards — two of the Center group's Blades — hadn't noticed the exchange. Paying no attention to the musicians, the bodyguards were watching the parade.

Vão bit back what he wanted to say; it wouldn't do any good. Somehow the bodyguards had gotten the idea that Vão and Rafe were overreacting to the mangled photo because of Kris, that nothing could possibly happen to _Karma_ in the middle of Mardi Gras, and this was all a vacation instead of a job. And nothing, _nothing,_ Vão or Rafe said convinced them otherwise. Even Cy seemed to have the same mindset. Rafe didn't seem as concerned about the bodyguards' attitudes, but still…

Vão watched the crowd, as Rafe and Nathaniel laughed at a pair of chicks who were flashing a group of guys on an upper balcony. His two bandmates weren't quite drunk, but definitely loopy. Vão wished he could join in, but alcohol destroyed what control he'd managed over his shields — he'd learned that lesson the hard way, at that media party — and connected his brain to his mouth with no censor between. Of course, if he got totally drunk, it also deadened his Empathy way down, but the loss of shields first — especially when they weren't that certain to begin with — wasn't what he wanted in the middle of Mardi Gras.

Rafe had stumbled to a stop at a turn of alley lit with neon and tiki torches; a neon sign at the back proclaimed "Samedi's" and a flashing reclining skeleton. Vão sighed: another bar. Rafe and Nathaniel seemed determined to make the rounds of everything on Bourbon Street.

A turbaned midget in silk robes was handing out cards to passing revelers: "Dr. Duveé, straight from Haiti, best black magic voodoo show in all of New Orleans — come right in, free drink on the house, best drinks in New Orleans…"

"Free's good." Rafe snagged a card, Nathaniel following suit and after Rafe down the alley.

"Rafe," Vão said, "the party's out here. We don't need another cheap dive."

"Speak for yourself, Carvalo," Nathaniel said. "Some of us aren't teetotaling killjoys."

Vão clamped his mouth shut. He wasn't about to get into a fight in public. Rafe, though, was giving Vão an odd look. "Never mind," Vão said, both in general and to Rafe, and followed after.

"Hey." Rafe clapped an arm around Vão's shoulder as they pushed past the beaded entrance. "Some of the best blues's in these places, _ese, _you know that. What's up?"

Vão only shook his head, then stopped just inside the doorway, so suddenly that the bodyguards nearly ran into him. Nathaniel was looking around for an empty table, but Vão couldn't take his eyes off the decor: dark, black and red, over-loaded with African and tiki statuary, skull masks, plastic snakes, red candles, and murals of tuxedo'd voodoo skeletons. It could've come straight from a cheesy Hollywood B-movie set.

"We," Rafe said in an undertone, "need to talk Kris into a three-way. Ambush her when we get back or something. You really need to make the bed squeak, Carvalo." He paused, as if considering. "Man, I know I'm hard-up when I've got you in the same fantasy as Kris."

That — Vão stared; the idea thrummed through him with a pleasant, overwhelming jolt. Rafe gave him a cocky grin and a friendly shove, and Vão felt the edge of lust spike through his shields.

"There," Nathaniel said, oblivious to the conversation, and pushed through the tables to a miraculously open table towards the back, near the bar. Rafe grinned at Vão again, then followed.

Vão kicked himself into gear. He felt as if he was floating; his head buzzed pleasantly, and his grin felt as if it would split his head in two. He didn't care if their bodyguards had heard. Maybe they'd take the gossip back to Kris…

"What's got into you two?" Nathaniel said. "You get laid and I didn't see it?"

Sprawling in his chair, Rafe exchanged a loopy grin with Vão; Vão burst into laughter. Nathaniel's wife had come with him to New Orleans, but hadn't wanted to bar-crawl — and from the fight Vão had overheard earlier, she wasn't wanting to do much of _anything._

"Oh," said a voice. It cut through the laughter; they all startled. A stuffy-looking old man in a crisp black suit stood near the table, a drink in his hand. His eyes were wide, round and flat against his circular, jowly face. "This was my table."

"Oh, man, sorry," Nathaniel said, before Vão or Rafe could open their mouths. "We didn't know. We'll leave."

"No, no, that's quite all right." Clipped British tones. The man pulled another chair over and seated himself at the remaining open space.

Vão saw one of their bodyguards give the man a glance, then go back to leaning against the nearby bar. The other, though, stared at the newcomer, opened his mouth, then looked at his partner and only shrugged.

"Dr. Orrin Thatcher," the man said pleasantly. "Professor of Cultural Anthropology at Oxford University. I'm doing a thesis on your Mardi Gras."

Vão sighed. Just what they needed. A stuck-up stuffy British professor sharing their table.

"Nathaniel," Nathaniel said. "The two idiots there…Rafe…Vão…"

"Yes. I recognized you. Well, you gentlemen, anyway." Thatcher nodded at Rafe and Vão. "You are part of the rock band Karma, is that right?" He smiled at their expressions. "Unlike most of my colleagues, I enjoy American rock music. It shares many roots with more primal cultures. It's most enjoyable — and very powerful."

The man's round-eyed gaze had fixed on Vão. Vão eyeballed him back with no expression. Thatcher didn't look anything like a rock fan, but then again, neither did Cy. Or Kris, for that matter.

Then it struck him. Vão wasn't getting _anything_ from Thatcher. Even though Vão had managed to get some shields back, he should still feel something — there was a constant low hum of pressure from the other people around him, even Rafe. But Thatcher, nothing. He was shielded, then? Gifted?

"Is something wrong?" Thatcher said to Vão.

He'd been staring. "Um…no, sorry." Vão turned his gaze away, wishing he could somehow ask Rafe to check the man out.

"This's our new guy." Rafe mock-punched Nathaniel's shoulder. "We bought him, cheap. He was too well-used."

Thatcher's stare moved to Nathaniel, then his eyebrow raised. Nathaniel ducked his head. "Not _that_ used," Nathaniel said.

"Yeah, right, your wife sold us the videotape," Vão said, and Nathaniel's momentary glare shifted to a tentative grin.

"No," Thatcher murmured. "Not used at all. Interesting."

At that point, the lights went out, an announcer's voice boomed through the club, there was a flash of fire from the stage, and when the smoke cleared, a thick black man in pseudo-tribal garb stood there, arms crossed and glaring at the crowd. He yelled something, spread his arms, and doves flew out from his robes. Out of the corner of his eye, Vão saw Rafe startle and sit up; Rafe caught Vão's gaze, then glanced back at Thatcher, shook his head and settled back into his chair, scowling at the stage.

The show went on, a second-rate magic act dressed up in voodoo trappings — Hollywood voodoo, anyway, and Vão could imagine Joshua's rant if he saw this. But despite the silk cloths, doves, and fire-flashes, there was an undercurrent of sex and sadism that simultaneously turned Vão on and made his skin crawl: men in loincloths hoisting unconscious half-naked women into coffins, those same half-naked women draping themselves over Duveé, a suggestion of flogging, forced sex. Vão glanced over; Rafe hadn't moved from his scowling sprawl. Nathaniel's face was hidden by the dark, but he was shifting around his seat, arms crossed.

Finally, the lights came up. Vão pushed up from his chair. He'd seen way too much, and he felt sick. "I'm leaving," he said to Rafe, to Nathaniel. "Now."

"You seem upset." Thatcher cocked his head. "Would you like to speak with him?"

"Who?" Rafe said.

"Duveé." Thatcher smiled. "We are co-owners of the club, you see. If the show upset you, Mr. Carvalo, we would like to know why."

Vão wanted to tell Thatcher exactly what he thought of the show, but here in the middle of the crowded club was not the place. Thatcher wouldn't appreciate angry criticism in front of his customers. "No," Vão said. "It's okay."

"Yeah," Rafe said at the same time, shoving to his feet. "I'd love to meet the guy. That was impressive, up there."

"Oh, you liked it!" Thatcher sounded delighted. "Duveé will be pleased. He enjoys your Mardi Gras and he was curious when he saw the posters for your show. American rock music is popular in Haiti, after all."

"I'll wait for you guys outside." Nathaniel looked ill.

"C'mon, Nate," and maybe only Vão heard and felt the edge under Rafe's voice; he stared hard at Rafe. Rafe ignored him. "It won't hurt to meet the fans."

Nathaniel looked about to refuse, but Rafe had a grip on his shoulder, pulled him along after Thatcher. Vão followed in their wake. He didn't like this, he really didn't like this, especially when their bodyguards stayed at the bar. Thatcher patted one of the bouncers on the shoulder; the bouncer grinned and stood aside to let them through.

"Duveé," Thatcher said, and the magician stood up, eyeing Rafe, Vão and Nathaniel. Up close, Duveé was powerfully built, a smattering of moles across his cheek. "These are the young musicians you asked about. The ones playing Mardi Gras this week. They just saw your show. Vão Carvalo, Rafael Hollen, and Nathaniel, their new man — I'm sorry, Nathaniel, I did not catch your last name."

"Tanner," Nathaniel said.

"He's not on any of our albums yet," Vão murmured. The room stank of tobacco and was filled floor to ceiling with pictures and statues of Catholic saints, skeletons, skulls. "But he's been a real good jolt for us."

"A kick in the ass we needed." Rafe stood with his arms crossed, watching Duveé, the challenge open in his stance. "The show was great."

Duveé's gaze stayed on Nathaniel, then shifted to Rafe, a hard, studying stare. "I am pleased you enjoyed my show."

At that point, Vão realized that he was feeling nothing from Duveé, either. Just…blankness. It unnerved him — he should be feeling _something._ Unless they had no emotions…

…or were shielded.

Rafe grinned, cocky, egotistical and all drunk-rock-star, unfazed by or oblivious to Duveé's stare. "I gotta figure out how to get women all over _me_ like that onstage."

"You already got 'em," Nathaniel said. "Backstage. Dylan has film."

"That's _different_."

Vão snorted, deciding to play along. He had no clue what Rafe was up to, but… "Yeah, right. I've seen your chicks, Hollen."

"It's better than the women _you _get," Rafe retorted.

"I have to prepare for my next show," Duveé interrupted the exchange. "It has been my pleasure meeting you."

"Yeah," Vão said, "thanks, ours too." He snagged Rafe's arm to go.

"However, Mr. Carvalo…" Duveé's gaze was on him; Vão stood his ground, staring back with every bit of ego and spoiled-rock-star he could manage. "I wondered. With your appearance and your name. Portuguese?"

That was out of left field. "Uh, yeah."

"There were Portuguese in Haiti, from its pirate days," Duveé said. "My grandmother claimed some of that lineage. I wonder…would you do me the honor of your autograph?" A quick shift of glance. "All of you, of course."

Rafe made a faint noise. Vão shrugged. "Sure."

"I don't do autographs," Rafe said at the same time. His expression was still cocky, drunk rock-star, but there was an edge under his voice. "Your tits aren't big enough."

Duveé regarded him stonily. "I see."

Misgivings now crawled through Vão, but he couldn't back out now, not having agreed. He scrawled his name illegibly on the offered poster — light cardboard with a weird cross-symbol on it in black and red. Nathaniel did the same, slow and unsteady and his scrawl looking nothing like his usual loopiness. Then Thatcher ushered them out and back to the bar proper.

They headed for the door; Vão could not get out of there fast enough. But Thatcher still followed, stopped off at the bar, then came after them. "Gentlemen, please. With my compliments."

Black t-shirts, with the bar's logo — "Samedi's" and the reclining skeleton — emblazoned in eye-watering neon colors. Before either Vão or Nathaniel could react, Rafe snagged all three shirts, slung them casually over his shoulder. "Hey, thanks. Something to wear onstage for the show."

"Free…ah…'promo', I believe you Americans say," Thatcher said, smiling.

Rafe grinned back, let Vão and Nathaniel drag him out. Vão waited until they were out of the alley and glanced back over his shoulder to make sure Thatcher didn't follow — and a sudden chill threading up Vão's back. Their bodyguards hadn't followed, either.

Nathaniel wasn't so patient. "What was that all about?"

Rafe glanced over his shoulder, too. "That Duveé — he's Gifted. He was shielded. And he was flashing the real thing onstage — him and someone else, I couldn't tell who. Something was keeping me away. Don't," he snapped, as Nathaniel reached for the shirts. "I think they're okay. But I'm not taking chances. And you, Tanner," Nathaniel stiffened, but Rafe glared, "you are gonna learn shielding, and I don't care what excuse you got. Suck it up and get some balls."

"He was Gifted, so?" Nathaniel snapped.

"Don't be stupid." Rafe stretched his stride so that Nathaniel and Vão had to run to keep up. "We're going back to the hotel. And I don't care what excuse Mar pulls. We're gonna bully her until she calls Kris and Josh back in. Now that bastard's got a bit of us, and we couldn't avoid it. We walked right into it because I wanted — " He cut himself off, and Vão felt a spike of fear; palpable, thick rage was pouring off Rafe, and the drunk rock-star act had vanished.

"Rafe," Vão said.

"That other person," Rafe said, "that was the sig on the photo."


	11. Recruits

Sleep was near impossible. Joe startled at the slightest movement, the slightest noise, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw the corpse, the blood, the doll…

Finally, he gave up. Early dawn lit the room; the painting of Joan of Arc over the couch glowed in a patch of it. Joshua sprawled on the couch; Frank was wrapped in a sleeping bag near the door. Kris wasn't in the room, her sleeping bag rolled up against the wall, but Joe felt a slight breeze of morning air; the gallery doors were open.

Everything could wait until he'd had a shower.

A short while later, barefoot with his hair damp, Joe wandered back through the living room to the kitchen. Coffee had been made; Joe snagged a mug from the rack over the sink, helped himself, stepped out onto the gallery. Kris sat there, nursing a cup of tea with her feet propped up on the rail. A white box of square puffy donuts topped with powdered sugar was on the iron-work table next to her.

Kris nodded at the chairs. "Pull up. Grab a _beignet._ And be warned, Josh'll come out here calling me a heathen because I'm eating them with tea, and not coffee."

"_Cafe au lait_, and you've got enough problems,_"_ Joshua said, coming into the doorway. He was in purple sweatpants and an oversized _Star Wars_ t-shirt; he eyed Joe's mug. "You need more milk in that."

"Everyone's a critic," Joe said.

"_Two_ heathens." Joshua stumbled towards the bathroom.

Joe snagged a _beignet _and bit into it cautiously. The light, airy pastry itself wasn't that sweet, but the snowstorm of powdered sugar on top more than made up for that. The coffee had a mellow, smoky undertone to it, pleasant and warm. After last night, sitting in bright sunshine with mug of good coffee and the box of _beignets _on the gallery table between them was wonderfully commonplace. The horror seemed far away; real life was here, now, and the silence was comfortable, the sun warm, Bourbon Street below quiet.

There were voices in the kitchen; Joe glanced back. Joshua was expounding on _cafe noir_, _cafe au lait, _and hot milk, before shoving a mug into Frank's hands.

"Three heathens," Joshua said, throwing up his hands. "Why I even bother…"

Smiling, Frank came out, pulled up a chair, leaned back with his eyes closed as Joshua went on. "He'll wind down," Kris said. "Eventually."

"…next you'll be telling me you use _sugar_ in your coffee and not good molasses…"

"We'll get our revenge if you ever come back to Bayport," Frank said.

"Don't say that," Kris said. "Josh'll bring Godzilla. I don't want to be in the same _state_ if Godz meets your aunt."

"State, hell, try _planet_." A steaming mug of _cafe au lait_ in his hands, Joshua came out to the gallery. "Kris's told me stories about that worthy, thank you."

Frank and Joe exchanged grins. "Okay, now you tell us one. How did you do that?" Frank said, to Joshua. "The fire, I mean?"

"Frank, come _on," _Kris said.

Joshua shrugged. "Hydrogen. Methane. Both are inflammable, and they're part of the air. Bit more than usual here, because of the bayou."

"Stop pulling my leg. There's nowhere near enough. The concentrations are too low. You need at least —"

"Wizard," Joe said; it brought Frank up short.

"No, no," Joshua said. "That's exactly how he _should_ be thinking, _chè_. If thunder cracks, look for the storm, not a wizard duel. That's why I was so wiped after — I had to pull enough into that spot to _make_ the concentration."

"It follows rules, Frank," Kris said. "There's science behind it. But it is easy to fake." She snagged another _beignet_. "Remember Stacy?"

Both brothers nodded. "Circle Hills," Joe said. "That house."

"'That house' was a haunted house for the local VFW," Kris said.

"A-_ha! _Knew it!" Frank grinned at his brother. "So much for that 'ghost' you were going on about."

"Don't get cocky," Joshua said.

"Didn't you wonder why the place was in such good repair, Joe?" Kris said. "After all the 'hundreds of years' Stacy was claiming? The story she gave us was word for word from the VFW's tourist pamphlet."

"But Stacy knew things,_"_ Joe said. "Even her mother said she was always saying stuff that came true, like that wreck."

"Because Stacy caused them," Kris said. "The wreck? The brake lines had been sliced open, and she'd been spotted near the car earlier. Other things she 'saw' had the same story."

"Dear God," Frank breathed, running a hand through his hair. "I knew she was faking, but I didn't think…god."

Kris looked away. "To be absolutely fair, that doctor put her up to it. But…still." Then Kris met Frank's gaze. "But the ghost was real."

Frank hesitated, looked from her to Joe and back.

"I sense an apology coming," Joe said, grinning; Frank had ragged him for weeks after Circle Hills. Joe remembered the ghost too clearly: him and Kris heading down into the basement, movement skittering in the shadows — then _something_ had leapt for them, followed by a bright, sparking _crack_ —

But then Joe's grin faded; he stared at Kris. "Wait a minute. _You held it off_. I remember that. You can do stuff like _that_, but you couldn't prove all this to me and Frank before?"

Kris shook her head. "It was both of us. I'm just a couple french fries. You're the double-cheeseburger, magically — don't even _think_ of saying it, Josh."

Joshua closed his mouth.

"I was…" Kris seemed to search for words, "…well, pulling energy off you, Joe, mostly. That's why I got so sick, after. My system couldn't handle what you were throwing at me."

"Mostly? You were doing _more?"_ Then the rest sunk in. "Wait — what _I_ was throwing at you?"

Kris looked uneasy, glancing at Joshua. "Um…I'm not sure you're ready for the explanation."

"Cut the dramatics, Tagalong." Frank kicked her chair. "Josh tossed a fireball in our faces. We can handle it."

"Um…how about 'I'm not sure you'll _understand_ the explanation'?"

"Can we kill her?" Joe said, to Joshua.

"I'm with them, _chè,_" Joshua said to Kris. "Spit it out, or I'll gladly aid and abet whatever they do."

Staring at her hands, Kris said nothing for a long moment, biting her lip. "Um…Joe's an amp."

Joshua blinked. Joe waited, exchanged a look with Frank — who looked as confused as he was — then, finally, "Okay?"

"Amplifier," Joshua muttered. "Jesus wept, keep him away from Rafe." Then Joshua stopped, sucked in a breath. "Oh…_hell._"

Joe didn't understand their expressions. "I don't get it. What's the big deal?"

"Someone had better explain," Frank said.

Kris sighed. "Joe's mage-Gifted, like what Josh did last night. But more." Her gaze rested on Joe: serious, intent. "You hooking into someone or them hooking into you — you ramp their Gift up. Way up."

Joe and Frank looked at each other. "Define 'way up'," Frank said.

"Well…like for that ghost. My ten-watt light-bulb became a few thousand kilowatt floodlight."

Joe turned that around in his head a few times. "Okay. I think I get it. But what's so bad about that?"

"I get it more," Frank said quietly. "What they said, who the killer's targeting…Gifted, and untrained."

"I know," Joe said. "I figured that out last night."

"You're not getting all of it, darlin's_,"_ Joshua said. "The full reality's much worse. On that note, down to business. We need your story. All of it, from when you arrived in New Orleans."

Frank exchanged a _look_ with Joe; Joe looked away. "On one condition," Frank said. "You tell us your side after. We're helping someone after the killer, too." Frank looked thoughtful. "Maybe we should bring Thatcher in on this. He could help us a lot."

"Supposedly," Joe muttered.

Bit by bit, the story came out: the theft of their wallets, Duveé, Thatcher, the dolls, and both Kris and Joshua dug more out of the story than Joe had thought he'd remembered, as thorough a questioning as anything Dad had ever put him and Frank through. By the time Joe got to finding Claire murdered, Joshua was pacing the gallery and Kris leaned on the table on her elbows, her head in her hands.

"Wallets?" Frank said. "You removed _evidence?_"

"I didn't want the cops looking at _us!"_

"Joe," Joshua said, "bring your jacket here. Don't remove the wallets. Don't touch them. Keep your hands as far from them as you can — Frank, I swear to God we'll tell you our side. Just hold off a moment."

Joe went to grab his jacket, holding it gingerly by the collar. Joshua took it and laid it on the gallery table, and studied it.

"Inside pocket," Joe said.

Joshua opened the jacket, stared hard, then pulled out both wallets, flipped one to Frank, who caught it. "Nothing," Joshua said.

"So…a warning?" Kris said. "Or threat?"

"Or letting us know that they know of these two — no, that makes no sense. They weren't aware of this stuff until afterthe murder. The killers couldn't have known Joe'd walk right into it." Joshua sighed. "A warning, yeah. Little too close to be otherwise."

"Hold it," Frank said. "'They'?"

"They," Joshua said. "Plural. The shark's got a partner."

"Wonderful," Joe said.

"But how'd they know about us?" Kris said, to Joshua. "We haven't done anything they could track. They've had us stonewalled. Why threaten someone who's no threat? They risked exposing themselves."

"Never grant a motive to something that's just dumb luck," Frank said. "That's what Dad says. Serial killers like outwitting the cops. That's where they make their mistakes. They think they're invincible."

"Fingerprints…?" Joe nodded at the wallet.

"Right, Joe. We're going to go to the cops and say, 'here you go, I removed them last night.' They'd lock us up." Frank shook his head. "They wouldn't take them, anyway. They've been contaminated. No use in evidence."

Joe picked up the other wallet. "Our credit cards are still here. That's one good thing."

"Wait." Frank straightened. "Not a warning. A _lure._ She —" Frank looked down. "The girl warned us. Then she turns up dead, with our wallets right there. The cops would've tracked the cards to us and hauled us in — that'd get us involved. And investigating."

"If we start poking around in places going after the killers when they're going after _us…" _Joe said.

"No." Frank tossed the wallet onto the table and leaned back in his chair with a frustrated sigh. "That's still not making sense. It'd be easier to just grab us."

"Not in the middle of Mardi Gras," Joshua said. "Too many witnesses. Better to have you walk into their trap of your own free will. Most of the sites have been near the main drags, but out of sight." Joshua grinned, leaning on the railing. "I take back some of what I said last night. You do have brains. I love intelligent men."

"You're not rich enough," Frank said, staring at the wallet on the table. "I like my dates financially solvent, thanks. Someone has to pay my way through college."

"He _is_ the pragmatic one of the two of us," Joe said. "But I taught him everything he knows."

Now Frank looked up, grinning back at Joshua. "Your turn. Start talking."

"And he learns fast. Oh God, I'm in love." Joshua grinned at the brothers, then, in turns, he and Kris started. It took longer — Joe and Frank kept interrupting for definitions, for explanations, for explanations of the explanations. Kris went to get a marked map, along with a notebook that had the addresses and notes on the 'sessions', as well as everything she and Joshua had gotten — as thorough as any police report and as precise as anything Joe had ever seen Dad do. Joe's head felt stuffed full by the time they were halfway through; Frank was scowling at the map.

"Thatcher said Duveé had a warehouse on the docks," Frank said, under his breath. "What's along here?"

"Governor Nicholl's Wharf," Joshua said. "That's the closest. Problem is, there's tons of docks and warehouses. We are a bit of a river town, y'know."

"That one's federal property," Kris said. "That'd be awfully tight security to bypass."

Joshua snorted. "You're mistaking New Orleans officials for people who _care_, darlin'."

"But if they've got magic?" Joe said, to Kris.

"Maybe," Kris said. "Magic's not fool-proof. It'd still be a huge risk. All it'd take is one inconveniently alert Coast Guard."

"There's also this." Joshua touched another spot on the map. "The Marigny — quite a few old warehouses there, right by Nicholl's." Joshua looked up at Kris. "Both are on the edge of the Quarter, and less than a mile from where we're sitting. That's the closest to most of the sites."

"I don't like it," Kris said. "It feels too convenient. Why would a killer need a warehouse? And I don't get why Thatcher didn't just go to the police."

"That was _my_ problem," Joe said.

"Trust those instincts," Joshua murmured.

"He didn't have proof," Frank said. "He thought the warehouse'd have that. He wanted us to help because he didn't feel safe going alone."

"But Thatcher told you he was working for the cops," Kris said. "The cops wouldn't help him?"

"No," Joe said suddenly. "He didn't say that. He _didn't,_" Joe added defensively, when Frank glared. "You asked if he worked for them and he didn't say. You just assumed it."

Kris stared at Frank. "That's not like you. I'd expect that out of Joe, not you."

"I'd expect that out of me," Joe said.

"You keep mentioning this Thatcher and his book," Joshua broke in. "I think this is the point where I ask you damn Yankees who and what the hell you're talking about and to please let me in on the secret."

"Hang on. Alma's got it." Kris disappeared into the living room, came back with a red-and-black book, the artwork a blood-spattered goat's head.

"_That_ one." Joshua stared. "You trust the guy who wrote _this?_ I take back what I said about your brains, handsome. Date's off."

"He wrote a book about the cultural mores behind black magic." Frank sounded confused. "All the Satanic conspiracy stuff lately — it's just sensationalist marketing."

"It would be," Kris said, "if it wasn't so dead-on accurate —"

"Emphasis on _dead_," Joshua said.

"— _and_ written from what he claims is first-hand experience. This is a how-to for doing blood magic."

"If you're thinking _Thatcher's_ the killer, you're nuts," Frank said, with heat. "The man's an Oxford professor, Tag."

"You know what Dad says," Joe said. "'Criminals don't wear numbers until they're on the inside'."

"_Joe…"_

"The moment you touched that doll," Joe said, "you wanted to see Thatcher. You rushed off right then. You wouldn't listen to me at all." Joe saw Joshua straighten and stare hard at Frank. "Thatcher looked shocked when I said no. Like he couldn't believe I'd refuse."

"That's spook evidence, Joe," Frank said, glaring. "That doesn't prove anything."

"Then how did Thatcher know your driver's license was in that doll?" Joe countered. "He expected it there…which means he probably put it there. And he claimed the dolls were from the killers, remember?"

"I don't believe I missed it," Joshua muttered, cutting the argument off. He headed into the kitchen, rummaged through the cupboards, pulled down a canister of salt, found a bucket and rinsed and washed it out until it squeaked, then dumped the salt into the bucket and filled it with tap water. "Hawk, I need your lovely kick-'em-in-the-balls feminine side here, if you don't mind."

Kris rose. "Let me get my knife."

"Your _knife?_" Frank said. Both brothers had followed Joshua into the kitchen; Joe settled into a lean in the gallery doorway.

Kris patted Frank's shoulder as she passed and headed to the living room. "Don't worry, big brother, it won't hurt."

"Much." Joshua looked at Joe. "Let's try something, _chè_. Ever daydream? Just stare off into space and let your mind wander? Do that, and watch what we do. Let me know what you see."

Frank had fallen silent, scowling. Kris came back with her k-bar; Joe recognized it — she'd had it since high school. She knelt opposite Joshua across the bucket of water, her hands clasped around the hilt and Joshua's hands clasped around hers; they murmured something together that sounded like a ritual blessing. Joe breathed out, let his eyes relax as he watched the water —

The knife contacted the water and flashed, a white-silver _crack_ across his vision. Joe jolted, cracked his head against the doorframe.

Frank stared. "Joe?"

Before Joe could answer, Joshua pushed himself up, hauling the bucket with him, and took Frank by the arm.

"Come on, handsome. You're taking a shower."

"Excuse _me?_"

"The dolls were lures," Joshua said patiently, "and targeted to you and your brother. You've got a nice, big, blood-magic cord on you, yanking you God-knows-where, but I can guess. We're getting it off you, and this is the least painful option. Move."

"I'd hate to see the most painful," Joe said, and grinned at Frank's glare.

"It's not bad," Kris said to Joe, as Joshua dragged Frank out of the kitchen; there was a yelp from the hallway, followed by a door slam and the sounds of water running. "If it was, Josh'd have me raiding St. Mary's to get _their_ holy water."

A multitude of questions rose up. Joe decided none of them were important at the moment. "I feel useless," he said instead. "You and Josh — you know what you're doing, and me — I hardly understand what you two are _talking _about."

"You're not useless, _chè_." Joshua came back into the kitchen. "We were stonewalled. We had the how, but nothing else. Then you two show up, bringing us not only a solid signature on the SOB, but also a possible _who_ and _where_. You didn't know what it meant, but you knew enough to bring it to us and you got yourself and your brother away from_ possibly _one of the killers."

"Possibly?" Joe said.

Joshua nodded. "I'm with your brother. I want more proof before we go jumping in. Though from what you've said, we're stalking the right trail."

"Me and Josh go at it alone, we'll get nowhere," Kris said. "You and Frank go at it alone, you're next on the kill list. We work together, we might nail them."

The phone rang. Joshua snatched it up. "Duprè." Then he winced and held the receiver away from his ear — the voice on the other was loud, even where Joe was standing. "Rafe, calm _down." _ Joshua listened, his face tight, grim. "I hear you. I believe you. You told Mar?" A long moment, then Joshua lifted his chin at Kris, passed the phone to her.

Another loud voice from the receiver, different and tenor. "Vão, _please,"_ Kris said, rubbing at her forehead. "Easy. Spit it out. In order. And tell Rafe to _breathe._"

"Karma?" Joe said to Joshua.

Joshua nodded. "It's now officially FUBAR."

Dressed, damp, and toweling his hair, Frank appeared back in the kitchen. "Happy now?" he growled at Joshua.

"No," Joshua said. "You need to take off all your clothes and go stand on the gallery for five minutes. In the sunshine."

Glaring, Frank only settled into an arms-crossed lean.

"Damn skeptical mundane," Joshua said sadly. He lifted an eyebrow at Joe. "Back to normal?"

Somehow, Joe kept his face straight. "I'd say he needs another shower."

"Vão," Kris said, into the phone, over loud squawking from the receiver, "_I believe you. _ _Josh_ believes you. We'll run it down — _Rafe!"_ Her eyes closed, she waved a hand at Joshua.

"Back out on the gallery, guys," Joshua said, and shut the door behind them once they were back out in the sun.

"That was Karma," Joshua said, to Frank. "Rafe Hollen, Vão Carvalo. If Joe's a magic cheeseburger, those two are enough Happy Meals to feed Mardi Gras, with extra pickles. Vão's an Empath, Rafe's mage like me — sorry, 'Empath', someone who can sense and project emotions. Almost everyone has it, in some degree. Vão's, though, is so ramped up that he runs the risk of being driven catatonic if he ever goes unshielded in any crowd."

"And he's a _rock singer?"_ Joe said.

"Tell me about it," Joshua said. "His middle name's 'Contrary S.O.B.', I swear. Music helps him, somehow — we still don't understand it. Anyway, they were out on Bourbon yesterday. Bar-crawling, watching the drunken tits, the usual. They found themselves in a little bar called 'Samedi's' — sound familiar?"

Joe and Frank exchanged looks. Kris opened the gallery doors, came out to lean on the gallery rail, her head bowed.

"Rafe saw Duveé's act," Joshua said. "Duveé's using real magic. And Rafe, not being subtle and acting on impulse —" the disgust in Joshua's voice hurt, "— checked for signature. He couldn't be sure whose it was; he was getting deflected. But someone onstage matched that photo we told you about."

"Duveé?" Joe said; Joshua didn't answer.

"Worse," Kris said, head still bowed. "He thinks Duveé caught him at it. Duveé got their autographs, in a way they couldn't refuse. Vão said they signed something that had a weird symbol on it — what he described sounded like Samedi's _vévé."_

"Jesus wept, darlin', sometimes I really want to bust the heads of those rockers of yours."

"Worse — their bodyguards — our good, trained Blades —" Kris's tone was edged with sarcasm, "— aren't taking it seriously. And nothing Vão or Rafe say to them makes any difference. They're 'making a big deal over nothing'. Rafe has no idea what Mar did with the photo, either."

Frank and Joe exchanged another look. "Makes sense," Frank said slowly, "if Duveé's the killer. The bar's the lure and cover. He must get a ton of tourists in there."

"Like us," Joe said. "And if Duveé and Thatcher are working together…"

"Jesus. Four days of absolutely nothing, and the moment you two arrive, we're on a runaway train." Joshua leaned back in his chair, eyes closed and arm thrown over them.

"The only saving grace," Kris said, "is that Rafe didn't sign that thing. And he can smack most of us into the ground. Same with Vão, if he keeps his cool."

"Problem," Joshua said. "Our killers have been raising a lot of power — and 'cool' is not a word I'd use in the same sentence as Vão. Or Rafe."

"I know." Kris sounded defeated. "I told Rafe to find that photo at all costs and burn it. Us going over there and trying to talk sense into _Shimá_ or do our own magic isn't going to work — the Blades'll just toss us out."

"Mar was in the background the whole time," Joshua said to Frank and Joe, "jumping their cases for bothering us with 'nonsense'. That also sound familiar?"

Joe nodded slowly: Frank had blown him off when Joe had first suggested taking the dolls to Joshua and Kris.

"But what can _we _do?" Frank said. "I'm not — I mean, if these killers are using magic…"

"Don't," Kris said. "I got on Joe's case about that, when Josh was having his way with you in the bathroom." Joshua snorted; Frank went red. "You're not useless, big brother. You heard Josh. You two have given us our first shot at being able to nail the SOBs."

"By accident," Joe said. "We only found out about this because they have us targeted…" He stopped; Frank was staring at him.

Then it hit. The killers used magic, and Joe could supposedly "amp" such things…and they'd had him targeted…

"Accident, yeah, right," Joshua said. "Why are you here now? Because you knew to bring it to us. You knew something was wrong in the first place. The only accident so far was you running into us the first time." Quieter, "Though I have some suspicions on that."

"I'll tell you what we need," Kris said, "and you two are the best to get it. We've got our suspects. We've got a lot of psychic evidence —"

"Physical evidence," Frank said, with another glance at Joe.

"Exactly," Joshua said. "Cops don't like sharing their stuff with psychics. For really _good_ reason, the courts won't accept spook evidence. We need the physical side. The cops might already have evidence to link it without knowing it. Working backwards — that should be easy for you two."

"Your dad might have contacts down here," Kris added. "So you could get in with the cops. We can't."

"That'll take too much time," Frank said. "If the killers are targeting Karma, they'll have to strike fast."

The unspoken: that such research could take days. Time they didn't have, especially Joe and Frank…

…time in which the killers would strike again, maybe Karma, or worse, someone they didn't know, couldn't protect, couldn't prevent…

"But it's time we need to take," Joshua said. "If you two work that end, that leaves us free for the other stuff."

All of it had the sound of _'keep them safely out of the way'_; Joe scowled. Below him, the street was starting to come alive, tourists lining up at the bakery across the way, a jazz band warming up on the corner, flags and bunting waving in the breeze, bright colors glowing warmly in the sun…

…and on that same street, a woman had been murdered, in the middle of the party, tortured and raped while Mardi Gras had swirled around her, a woman who'd tried to warn him at the cost of her own life…

Joe was finding it hard to talk; an idea was creeping up, one he didn't like, one he couldn't see any way around. "Or…" Joe breathed out, got control of his voice. "Or…we draw 'em out. Trap them."

Kris raised her head; Joshua only looked at him.

"We've run cons before." Joe tried to sound cool and off-hand, like Paul Newman in the _The Sting_. He didn't feel it. "Set a trap, bait it with something the criminal wants —"

"Like you," Frank said slowly.

Joe tried for a cocky grin. "Untrained Gifted double-cheeseburger, come and get it."

"No!" Kris shoved away from the railing. "Hell no!"

"Kris," Joshua overrode her, "he's an adult. He's older than you. He can make that choice."

"Don't you dare, Josh_. He doesn't know what it means."_

"I saw the murder," Joe said fiercely. "I know —"

"No," Kris overrode him, "you don't. I saw more than you did. _I saw it like it was happening._ Claire was raped. _Tortured._ That's the M.O. all the sites have had. All of them _raped_, all of them _mutilated, _all of them _tortured to death. _The police haven't even found half the bodies, only _parts. _You think you know what that means? You couldn't even handle _looking_ at a body!"

"So how else are we going to get 'em?" Joe shot back, shoving away from the railing, arms spread. "You said it. I'm untrained, I'm Gifted, I'm what they want! They're trying to lure me, so we lure _them!"_

"You don't know torture!"

"And you _do?"_ Then Joe clamped his mouth shut. _Wrong_ thing to say, to her.

"You sure don't," Kris snarled. "You don't know what it's like to get beaten so hard your bones shatter. You don't want to know how creative someone can get with household tools. Hot irons can be such fun —"

"_Kris,"_ Joshua said.

Kris turned away.

"That's what you'll face, Joe," Joshua said. "If it goes bad. If they snatch the bait and we can't get to you, or they manage to erase the trail _like they've done on all the other sites."_

"Is that what you want me explaining to your dad?" Arms crossed, Kris glared at Joe again. "You want _Frank_ to have to tell your dad that? You want Frank to be sitting here, knowing what's happening to you and unable to stop it? Ask him, Joe. Ask him if that's what he wants to do."

Joe looked down; Frank had his head in his hands, not looking at Joe. Joe managed one word. "Frank?"

Frank's hands clenched; he brought them down in front of his face, breathing through them, eyes closed. A long, shaking moment, then Frank looked up. As much as he wanted to look away, as unbearable as the expression on Frank's face was, Joe held the gaze.

Frank bowed his head.

"Well?" Joshua said, to Joe.

Joe shoved away, off the gallery to the living room. There he halted, pacing, trying to get his calm back. He glanced towards the gallery; a loud argument had erupted. Joshua stood over Kris, and even though Kris was right back in Joshua's face, Joshua looked to be winning. The words "what choice do we have?" were the loudest. Frank sat there, watching them both, but then he looked through the gallery doors, caught sight of Joe.

Joe turned away. Color caught his eye: the vibrant, glowing painting of Joan of Arc, golden on her white horse, sword upraised. Beside it, another painting of another saint, also on horseback with a spear, his enemies fleeing before him. Below them on a thin table behind the couch, an odd statue: an elderly black man, hobbling on a cane, guided by an alert hound. The room's cinnamon and vanilla smell had an odd undertone of cigar smoke, alcohol, and, strangely, burnt peanuts, though given all the visitors and the restaurant below, that was probably normal.

"St. Joan of Arc,"Alma said, behind him, so low he barely heard her. "Erzulie. The protector — and avenger — of women and children. You know how her story ends. The other, St. James the Greater, the son of thunder, the raging warrior and protector of his people. He was martyred, slain by the sword for daring to speak out to King Herod. And the statue, St. Peter, Papa Legba, guardian of the crossroads, the communicator who gives understanding."

His arms crossed, Joe bowed his head. "What are you telling me?"

"What you know already."

"What I know," Joe echoed. "Right."

Hands were on his shoulders, warm, friendly. "Warriors think they know the price they'll pay, eventually, for the goal they desire. Most discover otherwise. Joan, burnt at the stake. James,slain as he spoke. Unlike them, you know the true price, ahead of the goal."

Joe said nothing. He was always the one to stay out of trouble. He never wanted to get into it. But, now, if he didn't...

The grip tightened, a friendly shake. "If you choose your path because it is the best choice, that is one thing. If you choose it because you think it is the only way that exists for you, that is another. You have a warrior's soul, little brother. Don't let it overwhelm you."

Annoyed by the 'little brother', Joe started to turn. The hands stopped him.

A grin laced through the voice. "You know, Samedi is not only the spirit of death, but of life. You can't have one without the other. You don't want to die, all I need to do is refuse to dig your grave." The cigar smoke was suddenly stronger. "So many women un-fucked and rum un-drunk for one so young. You really need to change schools."

Outraged, Joe wrenched around —

No one was there.

Joe stood a moment. Right behind him was the painting of the centurion and the man in the shabby tuxedo and sunglasses. Finally, Joe breathed out, headed back out onto the gallery. Loud, angry voices suddenly washed over him, but whatever argument had been going on stilled when he crossed the threshold.

"We'll run with it," Joshua said to him. "You're right. It might not be the _only_, but it is the best shot we've got. If you still choose to do it, that is."

"Before we do anything else," Kris said, before Joe could open his mouth, "before you and _butterfly_ there go charging in half-cocked on this really stupid idea —"

"_Kris,"_ Joshua said again.

Kris ignored him. "— we're going to stake out Samedi's. You wanna play _bait, _here's your chance. We want to get a first-hand look at this Duveé and Thatcher. It might be we're chasing a false trail _—"_

"We're not, and you know it," Joshua said. "Stop talkin' like Mar, partner."

"I can take care of myself, Tagalong," Joe said.

"Don't kid yourself. You want to be bait? That means we can't train you. _Nothing."_

"No shields," Joshua said. "Nothing that looks like you might be working with someone else. That means we can't even put _our_ protections on you, or on Frank. They_ will _spot it, and they'll do one of two things. Either spook and go to ground, and we're back to square —"

"Or they kill you outright, because they'll figure you know too much," Kris said.

"You took that…cord…off Frank," Joe said. "They'll spot that."

"They might," Joshua said. "But it could've been removed normally. In the shower or whatever, without the holy water thrown in. Maybe. It's just possible."

"Okay, Joe," Kris said. "Put up or shut up. Now it's not just you. This idea of yours drags _Frank_ into the line of fire. You can't just show up without him — he was targeted, too. _Two_ voodoo dolls. You're going to keep our sharks distracted with your bloody fresh bait while me and Joshua scout the enemy. You _still_ want to do this?"

"I do," Frank said. "I'm in."

Joe's heart froze. _"No."_

Frank met Joe's gaze. "You made your choice. I'm making mine. We're a team, _brother_. End statement."

"Cue touching family moment." Joshua pushed to his feet. "Me, I'm gonna go leave a bottle of rum at St. Louis's. If we can just convince Expedite not to dig your graves, this'll all be perfect."

"Wait — _what?"_ Joe snagged Joshua's arm.

"Darlin', if you start freakin' out again over Voodoo_,_ forget the killers. _I'm_ going to be the one after your ass."

"It's local tradition, Joe," Kris broke in. "Folks who don't want to die bargain with St. Expedite to not dig their graves. And he really likes rum."

Joe said nothing.

"Hey," Frank nudged him. "You okay?"

It was such a…_Frank_…question. Joe looked up — and caught Joshua giving him an odd, searching stare.

"Make it two bottles," Joe said, "and a Happy Meal. I'm in."


	12. Mousetrap

Kris didn't like this. She _really_ didn't like this.

Frank and Joe walked ahead of her and Joshua, far enough to not be with them, near enough to stay in sight. Grinning, the brothers flirted with giggly drunk LSU chicks, watched floats, and listened to street musicians. To Kris, Frank and Joe stuck out, bright neon against a grey backdrop; she told her gut to shut up, that it was just that she knew them. But it didn't listen; Joe was a flashing 'Good Eats Free' sign to the otherworld. Kris watched the crowds hard, trying to pick out any possible watcher, any possible threat, any _possible, _period.

Gods, she was scared. She hadn't told Joe all of it; she didn't think he or Frank would believe her — some things were just words unless one had seen the scars and the broken minds. She was keyed up to the point that _anyone_ out of place was liable to get hurt, and that wasn't good. She tried to calm down; she wasn't any good if she was too panicky to think clearly.

She was behind them by a few yards; Joshua was several more behind her, acting on the theory that the killer had been watching the scene and Joshua last night. The killer might know Joshua had a partner, but not necessarily who.

Small, female, easily ignored. Kris prayed it'd be enough.

Joe stopped at the edge of an alley, arguing with Frank and gesturing. Kris brushed past them, caught a glimpse of a neon bar-sign, along with too many tiki torches and festival lights for good taste.

Joe snagged her arm. "Hey, beautiful, why the frown? Come on, join the party."

"She's too little," Frank said. "Toss her back."

With a disgusted glare, Kris yanked away and moved on, stopping behind a cluster of revelers to watch the floats. Clear signal: this was the place.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frank make a dismissive gesture in her direction, and the brothers headed down the alley. Joshua stopped next to a group of LSU guys at the alley-head — Kris sighed, watching Joshua flirt with the drunkest. Figured. Instead of his usual eye-watering _dashiki_, Joshua was in a black souvenir t-shirt with the Mardi Gras harlequin emblazoned on it, though his jeans were stone-dyed bright teal. The beads in his short-dreads were another matter. He'd chosen them with extreme care: no fimo or glitter this time, but real silver, polished obsidian, and amethyst, engraved with certain symbols from several different traditions, Voodoo, Pagan, and Christian alike.

Both Joshua and Kris carried their guns, and that had been another ferocious argument, with Alma settling the matter by her hand thumping the table with short, sharp words. If either of the sharks spotted the guns past the cloaking magic, it was game over — but the dangers of not having them outweighed the risk.

Though Kris had to admit, it had been worth it, seeing Frank's and Joe's expressions when their tagalong 'kid sister' holstered a .45 ACP semi-auto M1911…and then Frank's expression again when he realized he couldn't spot the thing after Joshua invoked the no-see…

She let her gaze wander the street. The plan called for Joshua to go in the bar next, then herself, last. Their usual method: let the flashy stuff get all the attention, so the mouse could slip in un-noticed.

More color caught her eye, and she froze. Vão stood in the open, right across the street: bright red t-shirt, blue jeans, new red Adidas — bright and _noticeable_. He was staring at her and nodded when he saw her looking at him.

Kris grit her teeth against the immediate fifteen curses she wanted to spit. As far as she could tell, none of the bodyguards were with him; he was alone. Casually Kris turned towards where Joshua was still chatting up the drunks, caught _his_ eye and jerked her head towards Vão.

Joshua's eyes narrowed, then he laughed and disentangled himself from the group, strolled over. He didn't look at her, his attention on a nearby trio of jazz musicians who were swinging through "Basin Street Blues". "Get over there," Joshua said in an undertone through his grin; it sounded as if his jaw was clenched. "Get him out of here." Then laughing and shaking his head, Joshua turned and made his way to the alley.

Trying to act casual and unconcerned, Kris joined another knot of partiers crossing the street. Then still casual, still calm, just a tourist enjoying the parade, she deliberately stumbled into Vão, knocking him back and glaring into his shocked face — and moved on.

The expected hand on her arm pulled her around. "Kris…"

"I told you," she snapped, and people turned, stared, "I'm _not_ your damned groupie. Go find someone else to screw, Mister Rock and Roll, because I'm not playing." She pulled out of his grasp and stalked away from the direct sight of the alley and bar, around the street corner.

Vão ran after her, grabbed her arm again. "Kris, what are you talking about? I _never_ —"

"You, Rafe, and half the road crew," Kris snarled, with a string of loud, descriptive Army obscenities (learned from Joshua when he didn't think she was listening). Playing the angry girlfriend to the hilt, she let all the anger and tension of the morning ramp up, real, hot, and un-faked — and shoved it into Vão's face.

It didn't take much for Vão to finally have had _enough-of-this-shit _and start shouting back, starting with "bitch" and sliding downhill from there. All the while, Kris moved as if trying to cut the argument off, leading him away from the bar. Around them, people stared and whispered, but she wanted them to hear it all — as many as possible to see the Big Rock Star getting reamed out by a chick: loud, attention-grabbing, embarrassing, and _public_.

Hopefully, any watching sharks would move to less obvious prey.

"Lady," a beefy white guy in a muscle tee cut off Vão's tirade with a painful-looking grip on Vão's shoulder, "dis guy botherin' ya? Ya need help?"

"Only with the fact that his cock-size doesn't match his ego," Kris said, glaring at Vão.

"Ya calm down," the man said to Vão, in a thick Yat accent — white New Orleans uptowner, and he looked well able to beat Vão into a pulp if Vão didn't take the hint. "We don't take kindly to guys who insult pretty ladies at Mardi Gras, hear?"

Vão glared back, but said nothing, and the guy let go, moved on. Vão's anger and confusion were vibrating against Kris's shields; she locked down her anger to cut off the feedback, fighting not to break into hysterical laughter at the sheer nonsense of the fight.

"Your shields are horrible," Kris said in an undertone, before he could get anything else out, "and you're way too easy to manipulate. Now —" She yanked a bit of magic around them, just enough to divert attention away from their actual words: _same old argument, it's boring, move on. _"— what is so important that you had to come down here and put yourself right in the line of fire?"

Glaring, outraged, Vão opened his mouth, but she laid a hand on his chest, gave him a light push — despite the cool day, he was sweating, flushed. He glanced down, then up at her, then around at the people ignoring them.

"_Estevão,"_ she said, and he shut his mouth, "we're running down the lead that _you _pointed us to. You're interfering with business. _And get your shields up._"

He stared at her. Finally, "You don't know jack about my cock size._"_

She wasn't about to be baited, either. "Answer the question."

Vão sagged against the bricks, hands on his thighs, bent over and gulping air. His hands clenched. "Nate's missing."

Kris went still.

"He had a fight with Candi and cut out. I don't know what it was about. I only heard it going down and ignored it. But he hasn't come back. It hasn't been that long, maybe an hour." Vão looked down. "Never mind. I'm being stupid. Mar was right…"

Oh dear gods. "The _last_ thing you are is stupid. Just easily manipulated." Kris sighed at his expression. "Take a look at how far we are now from that bar, mister, and how easy I got you going, before you answer that."

He bowed his head. "Right."

"And," Kris shook his shoulder until he looked at her, "I'll trust _your _instincts, and _your_ brain, and _your_ Empathy over any of those so-called Blades right now. Where's Rafe?"

"Decoy. Cy was rounding us up for some radio promo. He was screaming about Nate, and Rafe…ahh…kinda egged it on. I made it out before Cy noticed."

"Okay." Biting her lip, Kris stared back towards the alley. Her cover was blown now. One of the band missing, and possible killers in that bar. Multiple things warred: she had to tell Joshua, she had to go back her partners up, they had to go after the trail _now, _before…but…

Priorities. There was an innocent with her in the line of fire. By now, Nathaniel was either already dead or just wandering Mardi Gras. Joshua could handle himself until she got this target back under cover, and as for Frank and Joe… Kris grit her teeth. "Come on." She took Vão's arm. "You're going back to the hotel. And you and Rafe are going to barricade yourselves in a room and not move until we say so."

"Cy'll love that," Vão muttered. Kris started to drag him back down the street when Vão halted and glanced towards the alley. "Business, huh? Need in?"

She didn't answer. She didn't see Joshua or her big brothers. They were likely in the bar, wondering where she was. But now, going in the bar when she'd just raised a scene outside with one of the targets would blow the stake-out sky-high…especially since Joshua had been spotted last night, and Frank and Joe were targeted…

Vão leaned in and kissed her.

Surprise froze her, and Vão pushed her against a nearby gallery post, the kiss moving from tentative to serious as he pressed against her. Just as suddenly, Vão broke off, pulled back just enough to grin down at her. "Payback," he breathed, then looped an arm around her shoulders, dragged her with him across the street. His strut and attitude were all cocky rock-star, his voice loud and obnoxiously Southern Cal. "C'mon, babe, you have _got_ to see this guy. His show is _amazing."_

Her brain was still trying to catch up. Then she realized what he was pulling and nearly blew it by stopping in shock and disbelief. He couldn't — he wouldn't _dare —_

Vão turned at her hesitation, still grinning and too sure of himself. "You really _don't_ know how to play, do you?" he said, under his breath.

"You really _are_ asking for a broken arm, aren't you?" Kris said, in the same way, but trying to grin and play along. It felt forced, un-natural.

Vão's grin grew wider. He kissed her again, this time pushing her against the wall and grinding against her.

She got her arms up between them, broke the hold, and shoved him back. Now she was really angry, but throttled it down.

Vão looked at her, but shrugged, once more the cocky rock star. "Come on, girl. You need more tequila." He draped his arm around her shoulder, started to pull her down the alley.

Her brain caught up. _"No."_ Kris grabbed his arm, not caring who was watching, and yanked him back to the street, her voice low, ferocious. "You are _not_ going in there. _You _are going back to the hotel. _Period."_

"Wow. You got the jealous pissed-off part down _cold._ Now if you'd just work on the _other_ half —"

That brought her up short. Vão was grinning again.

She was not going to hit him. She glanced back; they were out of casual earshot of the alley. "_Josh _is in there. You go strolling in with me in tow, and our target who _might_ think me and Josh are involved will _know_ we are and that we're connected to _you._ And since Nathaniel's missing, Idon't want to give the killers any incentive to speed up their timetable on him."

Vão went still.

She was going to pound it into his head until he stopped the games; things were bad enough. "The killers dumped a body right outside our crash spot last night. Young woman. _Drained._ _They were burning her out."_

He would know what that meant. After what had happened on their first tour, Vão would never forget. His eyes went wide; he looked stricken.

Kris resumed her stride down the street towards the hotel; he shoved away from the wall to catch up. "All right, you _still_ want to go in that bar and blow our shot at finding the killers?"

"Sorry," he breathed. _"Sorry."_

They weren't that far from the band's hotel, the fancy Ramada. She pushed him ahead of her, letting him lead so she could keep an eye on him and the street around him. They hit the corner of Toulouse and Bourbon, crossed the street — the crowds here were somewhat thinner, the street in front of the hotel almost empty.

All her internal alarms _shrilled._

She shoved Vão towards the hotel before he'd realized she'd stopped. Kris dodged _something_ and lashed out, pulling her gun —

Someone was there before she could level, a blurry figure she couldn't focus on — then a hard blow _seared_ across her right shoulder, caught her just right, knocked her sideways, and swept her legs out from under her. Kris hit the pavement hard and wrong, managed to roll and get back to her feet; she'd lost the grip, the gun was gone. Her right arm tingled, numb — then _hurting._

"_Get in the hotel, now!" _she roared at Vão. She couldn't split her attention, she couldn't watch him, she could only pray —

She heard him yelling, didn't dare turn, dodged again, came up under the figure's guard with the heel of her left hand punching into where the face should be. It dodged, twisted, and Kris followed the turn, lashed out in a solid kick to break its knee —

It wasn't there.

Panting, Kris backed up, made it to the hotel wall, invoked the magic-tag that called the .45 back to her hand and made her head swim and throb — she couldn't see her attacker, anywhere, and her vision was graying out with pain.

"Lady, you okay?" People stood over her; a man in a bright Hawaiian print knelt beside her. "You took a bad fall on the curb."

"Her arm looks broken, Ted!"

Gritting her teeth against the pain, Kris shook her head to clear it, accepted the help up. "I'm fine — I'm _fine." _Fighting not to pass out, she pushed away and staggered into the hotel lobby —

— the quiet, calm hotel lobby. Vão was nowhere in sight.

Her gut clenched. She'd heard him yelling. If anything, Vão _knew_ how to raise a scene. "Hey!"

The desk clerk startled.

Her right shoulder was on fire, her arm numb. She held it close to her body with her other arm. "The man that ran in here — where'd he go?"

The desk clerk looked at the people gathered at the front desk. "No one ran in, ma'am." He looked closer at her; confusion escalated to shock and concern. "Oh my god — do you need help?"

She ignored him, pushed towards the elevators, praying Vão had an attack of sense and went for Mar. Kris all but fell out on the third floor, right into a loud argument: Mar, Cy, Nick Peters — the road manager — and Dylan.

The argument cut off cold. "Kris!" Mar's face was over hers. "Your _shoulder!"_

"Where's Vão?" Kris said, and when Mar only looked confused, _"Where the hell's Vão?"_

Dylan helped her up; his sudden fear battered at her. "He cut out. He was going after you and Josh because of Nate. Rafe went after him — that bar."

"Oh god." Rafe _and_ Vão… Kris fought the pain, fought to focus. "Vão found us, I was bringing him back. We got attacked. We came straight up Bourbon, we didn't see Rafe —"

"Call the cops," Cy snapped at Nick.

"That'll look really good," Mar said. "Three rock stars walk out to enjoy Mardi Gras. They haven't even been gone that long."

"Dammit, Mar!" Kris shoved away from Dylan, rammed her mother back against the wall to yell in her face. _"The killers are after the band._ _We got attacked. _ It's —" Weakness and pain waved through Kris; Dylan caught her. "Call Alma — she — "

Blackness.


	13. Perceptions

This wasn't necessarily the stupidest thing he'd ever done, but it ranked up there. Joe stopped behind his brother, just inside the entrance of Samedi's to let his eyes adjust to the darker lighting.

"There!" Frank snagged an empty table just ahead of a group of giggly sorority girls. They made fish eyes at the brothers, but pulled up chairs themselves; they were loud, colorful, and flirty, one wearing an LSU sweatshirt with Sigma Alpha emblazoned across her chest, all draped in beads and cheap Mardi Gras glitter. The bartender dropped off a pitcher of the local Dixie beer and plastic cups, but Joe's attention was only half on the flirting and the chatter.

He didn't see Thatcher anywhere.

Possibly not unusual. No one sane hung out in bars twenty-four-seven, after all, least of all old British professors visiting Mardi Gras to write a thesis.

Then again, they'd only had Thatcher's word for that.

Pouting, one of the girls waved a hand in front of Joe's face, and he startled. "Sorry," Joe said. "We're supposed to meet a friend here."

"Don't mind him. He's young." Smiling, Frank poured the beer, passed the cups around. "You should've seen him on the street last night. I had to show him how to give beads away."

The girls giggled; Joe rolled his eyes. Frank nudged him under the table — Joshua had just walked past with a brief glance and a raised eyebrow. Then Joshua spotted someone, called out, and went over to a table near the stage, high-fiving the other man and pulling up a chair, both casual, relaxed, and chatting as if they'd known each other years.

Joe wished he could relax. After what Kris and Joshua had said, he felt as if he had a flashing "Free Food" sign over his head. Joe kept glancing towards the entrance — much to the pouting of the girls — waiting for Thatcher to show up. Worse, Joe didn't see Kris anywhere, but then again, Kris had always been good at sneaking; she'd probably slipped in when he was distracted. Thatcher, though…

Five minutes, ten…fifteen…

The lights cut out. The announcer's voice boomed through the bar; smoke, fire, Duveé's usual appearance, usual show, usual schtick. The girls ooh'ed and aah'ed and giggled; Frank scowled at the stage. This time, Joe paid attention to the act, but not the stage-magic tricks — he was watching for the real thing. In the chaos, smoke, and flashing lights of the bar, it was hard to keep his focus and stay relaxed, especially when the giggly girls kept pouting, preening, and flirting. But Joe kept seeing _something_ around Duveé, an odd light that Joe couldn't explain by the strobes, spotlights, or other effects.

The show ended, the voodoo doll stunt with the fainting-white-woman trapped in a fiery coffin, and Joe scowled: so Duveé had replaced Claire that fast, that callous. But this time, Duveé lingered on stage longer than usual for bows and applause, his gaze fixed on the back of the bar.

Where Joe and Frank were sitting.

Under the applause, Frank leaned in. "Either our tagalong is really good at hiding," a barely-there undertone, "or she's not here."

Joe's gut clenched; trying not to be obvious about it, he scanned the bar, one table at a time. Joshua was still sprawled in his seat, though he was taking a swift look around, too, lingering on Joe for a few seconds, but Joshua's expression and manner didn't change: still smiling and chatting with his table companion. Kris was nowhere to be seen…and neither was Thatcher.

Hands clenched around a mug, Joe sat, barely listening to the sorority girls' giggly chatter. They hadn't discussed this possibility. Had Joshua gotten what he needed off Duveé? Should they keep waiting for Thatcher? Worse, why wasn't Kris here? Joe's imagination wouldn't let it go: both Kris and Joshua had been certain the killer had spotted Joshua last night. But what if the ruse had been blown before they'd even come in? What if…? Then again, Joshua didn't show any sign of moving. If something was wrong, Joshua'd surely be the first to do something. Tense, Joe fidgeted, waited for something, _anything_, to happen…

Frank kicked Joe's shin under the table.

"Are you okay?" the redhead girl next to Joe demanded.

Frank gave Joe a _look _and filled his mug. "His first time at Mardi Gras. He overdid it last night —"

"That's an understatement," Joe muttered.

"— he'll be okay. Here, let me help you with that…"

"Pardon me, gentlemen." The bouncer stood over their table. "The good doctor Duveé noticed you were enjoying his hospitality and wishes to make your acquaintance backstage. If you would be so kind…?"

"Certainly," Frank said calmly, getting up.

"Ooo, you get to meet him!" the LSU sweatshirt squealed; all her Mardi Gras beads rattled as she wiggled in her chair. "Can we come to?"

"Sadly, ladies, no. The invitation is only for these." The stagehand looked at Joe.

Joe forced his hands to un-clench from the beer cup, got to his feet. The bait was about to be bitten. He'd agreed to this. This was what he'd offered to do. He didn't feel heroic or brave or calm; it took everything he had to move. They followed the bouncer through the bar; Joe risked a glance at Joshua.

Joshua gave Joe a slow, bare nod.

"This way," the bouncer said and ushered them into the dressing room. All the candles were lit, turning the mirrors into a blaze of reflected, dancing flame; the gilded statues of saints and skeletons glowed, haloed in golden haze. Duveé was pacing, but halted when the brothers came in. He was still in his stage outfit and drew himself up, every inch the Big Scary Voodoo Conjure Man, to stare down at them.

"You must leave New Orleans," Duveé said, in his deep stage voice. "The _loas_ have spoken and warn of grave danger. Your lives are at stake. Stay away from the man Orrin Thatcher." Quieter, "I will not have your blood on my hands."

There was one of _those_ pauses where reality took a skid and missed the wall entirely, only to hit the tree directly behind it. Joe glanced at his brother — serial killers weren't supposed to warn their targets away, were they?

"Is that a threat?" Frank said.

"A warning," Duveé said. "The woman murdered last night, in front of you," a cold nod at Joe, "the killers stalk your path. They intend to lure you in. You will be next."

"Yeah, we saw you there," Joe snapped, unnerved.

"You did not. You were with the police. One of the killer's allies was doing everything in his power to confuse the _loas_ and hold my vision blind. He has crossed your path, he follows you, and you trust him far too much —"

"Y'know, _chè,_" said Joshua from the doorway, "they'd believe you more if you weren't throwing the big bad voodoo act in their faces. They're not stupid white tourists." A slight pause. "Well, not mostly."

"Thanks a lot," Frank said.

Snarling, Duveé blocked the door, his stance an angry warrior as he placed himself between the brothers and Joshua —

— then, suddenly, Duveé relaxed.

"_Gro houngan,"_ Joshua said.

"I saw you in the audience," Duveé said. "You have some explaining to do."

"Funny," Joshua said, "I was about to say the same thing to you."

Reality had skipped past the tree and hung a u-turn four blocks down. "Could someone include us in on the conversation, please?" Joe said.

"I'll settle for an explanation," Frank said to Duveé. "_Josh_, we trust. You, though, have been doing nothing but intimidate us."

Duveé smiled, somehow going from Scary Voodoo Conjure-Man to a genial, cultured host. "Please, sit. Antoine, tea, please. Earl Grey," he said, to Frank and Joe. "The so-called herbal blends they sell here are undrinkable."

"Relax, guys," Joshua said. "He's not one of the killers. Someone into that couldn't hide it in their aura, not without a heavy-duty cloak. However," Joshua's voice hardened, "with all due respect, _gro houngan,_ you _were_ at the scene last night."

"So were you." Hard. Cold.

"I was born here," Joshua said. "My blood, bone, and soul are of this city, land, and water.I'm a hunter, Joshua Thomas. My aunt is Alma Dupré, the _gro manbo _here. You are in her territory and messing with her city and people. You'd better damn well come clean, or I can't be responsible for what happens."

"You are on _that_ trail." Duveé's gaze moved to Joe.

"What did you call him?" Joe said to Joshua, ignoring it.

"_Gro houngan,"_ Joshua said. "Haitian _Vodou_. It's a term of respect for the priest of a _hounfour_. Don't worry on it too hard, Joe. Haiti and New Orleans are like Baptist and Catholic, and leave it at that."

"I would say Greek Orthodox and post-Vatican II Catholicism," Duveé murmured. "But close enough."

"That's what Thatcher called him," Frank said.

"No, he didn't," Joe said, without thinking. "He called him —" Then he cut himself off, as his brain caught up. Not a good idea to call Duveé a Black Magic Voodoo guy, especially in front of Joshua.

"I can imagine what Orrin called me," Duveé said. "He cares only for the _ounga_, the hoodoo, the things that are as far from real _Vodou_ as my tourist show is." The stagehand brought in a tray of teapot and cups, poured. Duveé picked up a cup, stared at it.

"The way you spoke," Frank said, "you sounded as if you know Thatcher's behind the killings. You're certain of that?"

Duveé sighed, long, tired. "My certainty is only as of last night. Suspicious, yes, for a while, but I have had no proof."

"You let him stay here, though," Joshua said. "You allowed him cover."

"I realized too late what sheltered here. I am new to this country, from Haiti, yes. I knew stage magic and business management. I was performing as a street magician and gaining a reputation on the club scene, and then I had an offer. The man, Thatcher, was retiring from Oxford. He wanted to open a bar here in New Orleans."

"Thatcher owns this place?" Frank said. "And you didn't know what he was doing?"

"We are partners in this bar," Duveé said. "He was enchanted by New Orleans. But he wanted…how did he phrase it…'more authentic voodoo color' behind the venture. To better fit in the French Quarter." Duveé sighed. "I see how you Americans prostitute your religions. Especially voodoo, here. He only seemed to want more of the same, and I saw no harm in playing to the Hollywood nonsense." Scorn touched that. "It was in good cause — I send my profits to my family, to help them leave Haiti."

"So…what? You're saying you didn't see what Thatcher was?" Joshua said. "I don't believe that. I'm no babe in arms."

"Especially with all the victims," Frank said. "You had to have seen something."

"I had read his book," Duveé said. "What he claimed as his experience. At that point, the taint could easily have come from witnessing as he did during his research. That is what I told myself. That is what I truly believed. Until about three months ago."

"When the first killing happened," Frank muttered, glancing at Joshua.

"The woman showed up, Claire. Thatcher insisted that I add her to the show — she had Gift. I have seen such things before, old men, young women, it is common enough — but then I noticed young people, about your ages, that Claire would bring in, who would leave with her and Thatcher. The first showing up on the news, I discounted as coincidence…but then two, three." He bowed his head. "I fear to go to the police. I have no solid proof, and I have heard stories of what American cops will do…"

"Claire?"Joe said. "But she's dead. Thatcher killed her — she warned me."

"No," Duveé said bitterly. "That was her sister, Josette. They look alike, to the fast glance. Claire stole your wallets, though she denied it when I challenged her."

Joe looked away, remembering Kris's flat, dead recitation of the murder scene. Claire's sister. Claire had tortured her own _sister._

"My God," Frank whispered, pale.

Joshua slammed the wall with his fist, half-collapsed against it, head bowed. "Dammit, dammit, _dammit. _ That's why they hid gender. _That's_ why. Men don't bother — it's only the exceptions._"_

"She passed them to Thatcher," Frank said under his breath. "He'd even said he'd seen her. And he knew that the voodoo doll had something in it. He probably put it together."

Joe sighed; he'd _told_ Frank that earlier. But something else occurred to Joe. "No — what Rafe said. The doll has the same signature as that photo, and it was someone onstage with _you." _Joe gave Duveé what he hoped was a cool glare. "Claire did the dolls_."_

"_Dammit."_ Joshua breathed out, got control of himself. "We should've seen it. _I_ should've seen it. No man in the world could lure those guys in." He grinned at the brothers. "Or you two. The _gris-gris_ _had_ to be a woman."

"Or just rich, in Frank's case," Joe murmured.

Duveé nodded. "Yes. Claire is Thatcher's lure and his pupil, willingly so. Josette was visiting. Josette wanted her sister to return to Baton Rouge. I intervened too late, and the child died for it. I saw the control on her. I broke it, and she fled. Then I saw Thatcher leave with you two, and you," that to Frank, "obviously hexed. I saw the fight, I saw you separate, and brotherly concern was enough to override the_ ounga_. I followed you, Frank, after you broke free of Thatcher…and the murder had already been done."

"But Thatcher isn't here." Joe stopped his pacing, trying to calm down. "We came here so Josh could target him and…well…you, but he's not here."

"He has recruited others." Duveé's voice was still bitter. "American rock stars, who will lure more innocents to him. They are cocky, arrogant, and uncaring of the consequences. Thatcher thinks to be as LaVey or Crowley in doing such, by drawing the rich and bored to him and using them to snare others."

"Jesus wept, _no,"_ Joshua said. "Those musicians — they're friends." He smiled a little. "Arrogant SOBs, yeah, but still good guys."

Duveé looked at him.

Joshua's voice dropped back to cold, hard. "They said they signed something. Samedi's _vévé. _Something you insisted on. You're no Karma fan. Give it up."

"They did." Duveé looked away. "My own _ounga, _to render them powerless to influence others —" Joshua's breath hissed in, "— to stop them from drawing more victims in."

"What happens to the turkey can happen to the rooster," Joshua said coldly. "They are targets. The killers are after them. _ Destroy it."_

Duveé rose to his feet and went to the back of the room, a side table covered with the more ornate statuary and shaped candles. "_It's not here._"

Silence.

"One of them came to the bar, earlier," Duveé said slowly. "The blonde…Nathaniel. Over an hour or so ago. He left with Thatcher and Claire."

"Jesus, that's why —" Joshua broke off.

"Thatcher said you had a warehouse on the docks," Frank said. "He tried to lure us to it. He said it had proof of _your_ killing."

"I do not know what he refers to," Duveé said.

"Don't know," Joe said, "or _won't tell?"_

"I do not know," Duveé said. "This is first I have heard of it. I cannot help you, truly."

"Then go to the cops," Joshua said. "Tell them what you know, that you recognized the victims as those who have been with Thatcher. You must."

Duveé didn't respond.

Joshua straightened to his full height. Joe found himself backing up, bumping into Frank: something now hovered around Joshua, just at the edge of sight, raging, righteous, as if wings upraised and sword lifted to strike. "Blood debt," Joshua growled. "What you did will lead to that man's death. Your inaction led to all those others. Their spirits cry for vengeance. _You owe this."_

Duveé stood his ground. "What _you_ do will lead to _that_ one's death._"_

Joe went still.

"His choice is his own, unforced and freely given," Joshua said. "I don't bind him with _gris-gris._" Long silence. Then, quieter, "Frank, Joe, we're leaving. This one's guilt will be judged by a greater Power. I have no more time for him. Or pity." He turned swiftly, left.

Head bowed, Duveé sat back down, as if defeated.

"Doctor," Joe said quietly, "please. Go to the police. Otherwise — Thatcher was making us believe that _you_ were the killer."

"He's setting you up," Frank said.

"Up until now, we believed him," Joe said. "If you don't act first, the cops will believe him, too." Joe looked away. "Claire — Josette, I mean — she died after warning us. They had to have killed her because of that. And you tried to help her." Quieter, "Don't let her die in vain. Please."

Duveé gave him a long, green stare. "Do you know what the purpose of the staked goat is?"

Joe said nothing.

"To hold the predator in place," Duveé said. "To distract him. To keep him occupied long enough for the hunters to strike. The predator feeds. The goat does not survive."

Like he really needed to know that. But Joe couldn't look away; Duveé's gaze held him.

"Beware your choice, young one," Duveé said. "And beware refusing it."

##

Yelling for help — full-throated, from the gut — Vão fled into the Ramada lobby…

No one reacted.

No one turned. No one even seemed to see him. Gasping, Vão staggered to the front desk, slammed his fist down. The clerk and the guests nearby jumped, stared at him with wide eyes. "Someone's being _attacked_ out there! Call the cops!"

The clerk exchanged a quizzical glance with the guests, said something Vão didn't catch; the guests shook their heads, and the clerk shrugged and turned back to his paperwork.

Vão reached over the desk and grabbed the clerk's arm — and _shoved_ with his Empathy, all the fear and panic clenched in his chest thrust out and into the clerk's face.

The clerk only jerked away as if irritated.

Fear crawling up his gut, Vão backed away. No one was watching; everyone was turned away. It all appeared normal, but…

Mar. He had to get to Mar.

Panting, his breath coming short, his head spinning, he staggered for the stairs — Kris could be _dying_. He had to help, but if she couldn't handle it, he sure as hell couldn't.

"Vão?"

It brought him up short — Vão gasped in relief as he recognized her. One of the non-Blades working area guard, that short sharp-faced brunette, in the Center's usual working clothes of black jeans and black shirt. He vaguely remembered her name — Claire? It didn't matter. "We've been attacked — Kris is out there!"

She grabbed his arm. "Move. We need to get you to safety."

"_Kris is out there!"_

"I heard you. I'm taking you where the others are. Move." Claire pulled him towards the Toulouse-side door, out to the street.

Something was _very_ wrong. Vão jerked away, back towards the hotel…

…tried.

Something ripped through his thin shields, laid a tight grip on his mind. Vão couldn't think, couldn't move, could only stand there, fear screaming inside his head.

"Come on." Claire pushed him towards a battered, nondescript van waiting by the curb.

Vão tried to push back, to resist, to fight, _anything_, but his muscles refused to obey. He couldn't even speak; his voice only croaked. He was deep in a nightmare, one where he struggled to cross the street before cars ran him down, and he could only crawl on an ever-expanding pavement, unable to reach the other side…

"We're just going where the others are," Claire said softly. "I promise."

The van door slid back. No seats save for the driver and front passenger; the windows were blacked out. She pushed, and Vão fell into the interior, hard on his side.

The door slammed closed. His hands were pulled behind him, handcuffed; a gag forced into his mouth. Then, only then, did the mind-grip release him — Vão kicked out, but Claire had knelt behind him, her hand stroking his cheek in a caress that made his skin crawl, an exploring, groping caress that slid further down, that he couldn't avoid. Other movement in the van's interior caught Vão's attention — and his chest thumped, hard.

Rafe, bound and gagged.

Claire's voice breathed in his ear. "You need to be more careful what you sign,_ Estevão_…"


	14. Divided

"_What the fuck do you mean, you don't know?"_

Yelling into the phone, Joshua abruptly caught himself, eyes closed. With a deep, deliberate breath in and out, his free hand moved in a slow, palm-down motion.

They'd gone back to Alma's, half-jogging through the crowds as Joshua explained to Frank and Joe in terse tones why Kris hadn't been in the bar. But Kris hadn't been at Alma's. Neither had Alma. Roy had been tending the barbecue on the roof and only knew that Alma had left following a phone call; she'd left only a jotted note: _"Kris attacked. No details. At Center."_

The phone receiver squawked. Joe recognized Mar's voice. Joshua listened a moment more, then cut Mar off. "Right now, there isn't anyone on your team that I'd call a Blade, _mam'zelle. _Including you." With that, he hung up, and remained leaning on one arm against the wall, eyes still closed, breathing in slow, deliberate breaths.

"He just got in Mar's face." Joe sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. "Now I'm impressed."

"They got Vão," Frank said, to Joshua.

Joshua nodded, face grim. "Kris fell out of the elevator and passed out. Broken shoulder, at least. Mar's words. And worse, Rafe went out after Vão. He hasn't come back." He stared at the wall. "We've been _blindsided_."

Joe closed his eyes, trying not to panic. Their little tagalong — okay, not so little now — attacked, by the killers. Frank gripped Joe's shoulder, and Joe looked up. From Frank's pale expression, he was thinking the same thing: Josette, tortured, raped, dead…and Tag…

"We need information," Frank said. "We need to know what happened. What Kris saw." Blowing out a breath, he ran a hand through his hair. "If she's okay enough to tell us."

Joshua nodded. "Alma's Heal-gifted. That's why she went."

"You people heal, too?"Frank said.

Eyes closed, Joshua went still, un-clenching his hands. "I'm really trying not to haul off and slug you right now." Conversational, calm. "But _your own brother_ is now part of 'you people'. So unless you're trying to claim that he's not human, _stop the goddam bigot shit._"

"_That's not what I meant!"_

"_Hey!"_ Joe shoved between them. Both Frank and Joshua startled. "I really don't want Alma slapping us upside the head again, alright? Josh, we can think a lot better if someone's not jumping down our throats for every single word we say. And you,"Joe thumped Frank mid-chest, "just accept that there's stuff you were totally wrong about and that I was right after all and get over it. _Please."_

Silence.

"Well," Frank said, "that was an annoying-little-brother comment if I ever heard one."

"I like how he worked in 'I told you so' without actually saying it." Joshua sighed. "Okay. What I was about to say — we can't wait for Alma to call back. I'm going down there. Kris can rest later, and she knows it."

"And us?" Frank said, scowling.

"Drag the cops in, _chè_. Make up any story you like: you saw the kidnapping, Thatcher forced them at gunpoint, I don't care. Drag your daddy's rep into it. Smack the cops with it until they drag their fat asses off their chairs." Joshua smiled grimly. "I'll send Cy down after you. _No one _tells that man no. But we need to make it so hot for those SOBs that they're scared to move — or at least too scared to move fast."

"Or they kill the band to dump the evidence," Joe said.

Frank shook his head. "I don't think so. They've put up too much effort to get them. They could've had a lot of easier victims here at Mardi Gras."

Eyeing Frank, Joshua nodded. "Exactly. They're planning something specific. They won't just abandon it like that." Quieter, "That scares the hell out of me."

"But they grabbed Vão right out in the open." Joe couldn't stop seeing Josette's corpse. "Hiding from the cops will be child's play. The cops won't do any good. Thatcher was trying to lure us to the docks, so he had to have a reason. We can at least scout it out."

Joshua had Joe by the shoulders. "Look, beautiful," growling, terse, in Joe's face, "you're not _that_ right. Exactly what you said. _They did all that without breaking a sweat._ I'm not taking them on without backup. You two don't count, not against blood-mages using whatever godforsaken mishmash of death and pain magic they can dream up. _Hell_ no."

"We've been in dangerous situations before," Joe said, annoyed at the constant _you-don't-know-anything_ refrain. "We can handle ourselves."

"Drop the ego, Joe. You couldn't handle blood residue — you think you can stand against full blood magic?" Joshua broke off. "Gah. I'm wasting breath. No matter what all intelligence shows, you're going to go running off the moment I leave. Shit-head."

"No, he won't," Frank said, glaring Joe down. "Spare me the attitude, brother. Josh's right. We're getting the cops."

"Frank, he's just trying to keep us out of the way!"

"I don't care," Frank snapped. "We're not going anywhere near those killers alone. Being a hero's only good for dying young."

"_Stop quoting Dad at me!"_

"Start _listening_, for a change!"

"Enough," Joshua said. "There's business." He shoved Joe down into a chair, then dragged another chair over, dropped into it. "Okay, _chè, _you're determined to throw yourself away —"

"We're wasting time," Joe said, from clenched teeth.

Joshua ignored that. "— you're getting the quick and dirty basics. I won't have that much on my hands, at least. And you,"that, to Frank, "are going to get my blue-light special protections. Hopefully it slows 'em down, if you run into them. You better pray it does."

"I'd rather have a gun," Frank said. "But I'll keep him on a leash, don't worry."

"I'd like to see you try,"Joe said.

"One of you shows sense," Joshua said to Frank, over top of Joe. "I'm in love again. Sorry, handsome, my gun stays with me." He turned back to Joe. "No time for polite. Try not to freak. Focus on your breathing."

Joshua leaned forward, laid a hand flat on Joe's chest. Joe opened his mouth —

Electricity cracked through him, and Joe collapsed forward, caught himself on his knees. Something inside popped, jerking a gasp out of him, as if a joint had snapped back into place.

"Breathe," Joshua growled, "and close your eyes before you get sick."

Shutting his eyes, Joe forced himself to breathe. He wasn't just feeling it, he was seeing it, a deep core of light at the center of him. From it, a line dropped down, deep into the earth, pulling more light up, molten liquid that burned through his gut, then hardened into a sharp metal edge and shoved through him, a barrier just at the surface of his skin —

— which then vanished. Scowling, Joshua leaned back. "Do it again, by yourself. Center. Ground. Shield. Don't ask how. I just showed you. Hurry up. We're wasting time."

Biting his words back, Joe looked up; Frank was watching. "But…"

"You'll feel a lot more than stupid if those killers catch you and you're unshielded," Joshua snapped. "Do it."

Somehow Joe fumbled his way through it by feel and gut instinct. He felt a _shove_, opened his eyes — Joshua was standing several feet away.

"It'll do. Keep working at it. Or you might get a final exam you don't want." Joshua disappeared back into the rooms, reappeared a moment later and handed Frank a round, polished crystal. "Keep that on you. It's a pre-set. And both of you, by all that's holy,_ listen to me._ You see Thatcher or that woman, _run."_ Joshua snagged a pen and post-it paper from the counter, scribbled two sets of numbers and handed one to each. "Get to a phone, call here or call the Center and get me. Got it?"

Pocketing the paper, Frank nodded; Joe glared back. "You've got a lot of nerve ordering us around," Joe said.

"I was an Army sergeant. Deal with it. You guess why I'm not still enlisted, handsome," that, as Frank opened his mouth. Bitterness was a deep crack in Joshua's voice.

"Sorry," Frank said.

Joshua nodded. "Let's move."


	15. Tapping

It hurt. It hurt a lot.

Dizzy and woozy from the pain meds, Kris sat as still as she could manage through the cleaning, the bandaging, the setting and the cast. Any movement made the room spin. Even through the local anesthesia and a nerve-block, it'd hurt. Broken shoulder and second degree burns on both the front and back of it. Kris had no clue how her attacker had done that, and the NOLA Healer, Shannon — and then Alma — had seriously freaked on seeing it. To have that much power to waste in a mere street fight — that added a huge jolt of fear to the anger, tension, and impatience building in Kris's gut.

She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be sitting in the emergency room at NOLA Center with her right arm and shoulder in a cast and on pain meds strong enough to knock out an elephant. She had to get out. She had to find Vão and Rafe. She couldn't just sit here when they were…when they might be…

"You look terrible." Joshua peered around the curtain-divider, then came around and into the space. "Jesus Christ, darlin'_,_ what got you?"

"They got Vão," Kris whispered, fighting to hold it back. Breaking down in front of Joshua was _not_ what she wanted. "I was right there. _ I couldn't stop them."_ The vision hung in front of her eyes, horrifying, real. "Oh gods. They got Vão and Rafe…"

Joshua sat on the edge of the bed and carefully gathered her up; Kris choked back a sob. "Easy, _chè," _Joshua murmured. "We'll get 'em. We will. Swallow it, partner. Keep it here, until you need it." He tapped her mid-chest. "Until you can turn it back on those bastards."

Jaw clenched, eyes closed, she swallowed hard, channeling the emotion and power down and in. It didn't help.

"They burned you good." Joshua touched her shoulder with a light finger, his gaze abstract and studying at the same time. "Christ. They can waste that kind of power." He took a long breath. "Okay, partner. Out with it. I need info. What happened?"

She got the story out, piecemeal and bass-ackwards; the meds were not helping. Joshua kept after her — grinning when she told him how she'd gotten Vão away from the bar — then, when her words finally stopped, he gave her the other side, what had happened in Samedi's.

"So Duveé was at the scene," Kris said.

"The looks on your big brothers' faces when they finally figured out Duveé was on the side of the angels…" Joshua grinned. "We've got to get them to San Francisco. I want to see their brains explode." He sobered. "And believe me, _chè, _you and I won't let Vão live it down for a long, long time — big cocky rock star getting reamed out on Bourbon Street by a tiny white chick. We'll make sure Rafe doesn't let him live it down for a good long while either. Deal?"

"Deal," Kris whispered.

"Frank and Joe are raising the cops. Or trying. Both you and I know what a goose-chase that will be."

"Joe went along with that? _Joe?"_

"I know," Joshua said. "I figured that much out. Hopefully Frank'll rein him in and it'll keep 'em out of the way long enough for us to get in and nail the bastards." Joshua took a long, considering look at her. "Partner, I hate to say it — you're out of the fight, too."

"I can still shoot," Kris said.

"_Chè, _you're on meds, you're barely stable, and you got that huge cast on your main arm —"

"Don't even _think_ of keeping me out of it!"

Joshua snagged her good hand in a partner-to-partner clasp. "— and even like that, I'd rather have _you_ at my back than any other Blade in the whole Association at the moment. Big question, though — _can_ you still shoot? And use that lovely mix of yours? You and Demerol do _not_ get along."

In answer, Kris glanced past him to the prep table. It took more concentration than usual, but she lifted a pen and pulled it to her hand. Kris breathed out, as a slight tremor shook her. "As for shooting, all I need is one shot. Not like it did any good against the bastards, anyway."

"We get the drop on 'em, and I guarantee you, one bullet through their brains will do a world of good. Here." Joshua handed her a water-smooth stone, a translucent, white quartz beach stone, then laid his hand over hers and the stone; she felt the energy flare, then settle around her. One of his pre-set protections; she tucked it into her jeans pocket. She needed it, since the Demerol had wrecked her shields.

He helped her back into a shirt — an oversize black Mardi Gras t-shirt — pulling it over her head and right arm and helping her get her left arm through the other sleeve. Then Joshua got to his feet, backed off, waited.

A test. Kris pushed herself off the bed, and then across the floor. She felt lightheaded and tired. Even through the painkillers, her arm and shoulder ached.

"Wobbly," Joshua said critically, "but you'll do." He handed her the holster and her sheathed k-bar, helped her buckle them in place. "C'mon. We need to find a quiet place in this madhouse." Quieter, as he led her through the noisy hall, "You'll hate to hear it, but grabbing Vão may have been their first big mistake. And not taking you completely out, their second."

"I know," she said.

Joshua swung off at the nurses' station to bully them into giving him two bottles of Gatorade, a notebook, and pencil, then pulled Kris into an empty room — crisp, white-sheeted and smelling of antiseptic and bleach, with sunny, steel-framed casement windows open and letting in the music and chaos of the street party below on St. Phillip. Like all the Association Centers, NOLA Center was in an old building that had seen much better days — on the outside.

Inside was always another story. NOLA Center ran a free hospital and emergency care for low income and homeless on its lower floors; it was good grounding for the Gifted to work with those in need, no matter what their Gift was — and a good way to find other Gifted. During Mardi Gras, they opened their services to party-goers, as well, though those tended to be more first-aid needs, a shelter spot for lost children, and the occasional safety-pins and tape for loose costumes.

Joshua closed the door, set the Gatorade down on a bed table, then helped Kris ease to the floor to sit cross-legged with her back against the wall. "When you're ready, partner,_" _Joshua said, sitting knee-to-knee with her. "I've got your back."

The pain-killers made it easy to slip into trance and loosen her hold on her body, too scarily easy, though she'd never had a strong hold on it to begin with. But this…she and Vão had managed this trick only once before, and the price was high. She heard Joshua murmuring something, far off and distant for all that he sat right there, but she was already reaching in…stepping _out_ —

She reeled, dizzy and drowning under the voices, feelings, and madness of the crowds; the In-Between thundered with the drunken noise and raunch. But she was looking for one specific voice, one pattern, one feel — a tenuous, wavering thread of connection of an uncertain relationship — and the city was a ghostly, shadowy overlay in a nightmare that wavered and changed under the feelings and perception of thousands of drunken partiers. There, the river, a slow, steady anchor in the chaos…and suddenly, faint and wavering in and out of focus… _there. _She grasped the thread, followed…

Bracing herself, she laid a mental hand against that whimpering, shivering mind…and she was grabbed, pulled in so hard that she resisted and fought back, terrified of a trap, but Vão had her, a desperate clutching of hope against fear. Darkness, then _connection_, then overwhelming pain and insane terror. From the feel, he was bound upright, arms over his head, gagged. It took long, terrified moments to get through to Vão, to get past the agony, to get him to open his eyes, that she had to see, they had to know…

He had no shields — brutal wedges of force clamped them down, and he couldn't get them back. He was drowning in waves of battering pain that he couldn't block, that destroyed all concentration and communication in a howl of agony, and he fought so hard against his bonds that his wrists and arms bled. He'd tried to channel the pain and terror to slam it back into his kidnappers, couldn't. He was blocked by those same wedges and the overwhelming pain coming from —

There was a horrifying glimpse of Nathaniel bound and stripped on the ground a few feet away, before Vão yanked his head away, eyes tightly shut again.

"_Open your eyes, Vão,"_ Kris whispered in his mind, trying to send calm through the connection, to channel enough pain away and drain it through herself so Vão could think; somewhere back _there, _her own body shuddered and convulsed in response. _"We need to see where, please open your eyes…"_

Far off, distant, Joshua was murmuring in deep, soothing tones; warm arms wrapped around her, rocking her.

That warmth, that surety, that safety nudged her deep within, and she reached out and up to draw down both moon and sun, let the Power flow through the connection. _"Earth, your body…river, your blood…"_ Rhythmic, repetitive, murmured, an old Pagan chant invoking protection, strength, will. _"Wind, your breath…fire, your spirit…"_

Vão seized onto the rhythm. She felt his internal shift, his struggle to get past the fear and pain, the tight determination, the hard swallow and clench. Image, memory: being dragged from the van, a glimpse of the surrounding run-down street…nothing familiar, nothing Kris knew. But then Vão turned his head away from the sounds on the ground at his feet — whimpering, gagging, soft wet noises — and opened his eyes.

Warehouse space: ancient, steel-frame, clerestory windows; rusted, ridged iron barrels; stacked crates; the overwhelming, gagging smells of formaldehyde, bleach, blood. A steel loading-dock door, chained shut to the concrete. Patiently, she urged him to turn his head, to see more of the layout — panic overwhelmed him, he would not look down, and she wasn't about to convince him otherwise — but bit by bit, managed to get closer: the edge of the circle at his feet, just to his left.

Kris clamped down on her reaction, not wanting to break the connection. Not a makeshift. Set tile, red and black: a large double-circle with an odd, skewed pentagram overlaid on top of it. The circle boundary itself was overlaid in chalk and paint with an unholy mess of ceremonial magic sigils and voodoo _vévés — _Samedi's dominating_. _The lines glowed at the visible range, and that alone spoke of major power. Thick candles on heavy ornate stands at the cardinal points, inset with incense resin and inscribed with red Greek lettering.

Slowly, Vão followed one of the lines in. By now, Kris was feeling drained and sick, but she had to keep going, had to know. Rafe lay bound and gagged, struggling at the center of the ceremonial circle, inside another circle inset with a triangle, and a drain at the center of that, two trickles of blood running down to it — Vão swallowed hard. Nathaniel was just beyond Rafe. Rafe was awake, his eyes tightly shut, his face and arms bruised, and there were secondary lines of force over him, connecting out…where?

But then something else caught Kris's attention. The second blood-stream was not from Rafe. Just at the edge of Vão's sight, just to his right, at his feet, there were two figures bent over a third.

The bastards had _another_ victim.

Movement brought a whimpered moan. One of the figures pushed up, and Vão looked before he could stop himself. A woman came towards him, reaching to stroke his face and neck — she looked familiar, but Kris couldn't place her, couldn't think, couldn't…

"You like what you see, _Estevão? _ You want to watch?" The woman's hand slid down, groped Vão hard as she pressed against him, whispering in his ear. "Or would you like to join in?"

The connection shattered in a thrust of fear. Kris collapsed, back in her own body, shivering and convulsing — Vão had deliberately broken the connection, before that woman caught on.

"I'm not going to like it," Joshua said.

Still caught in pain and terror, she couldn't move, couldn't speak, huddled over her knees and gasping some semblance of control back. Joshua snagged one of the Gatorade bottles, unscrewed the cap, pushed it into her hands.

"Drink, _chè_. Don't go passing out now."

"He has no shields," Kris whispered. "They're blocking them. They've started on Nathaniel, someone else. Vão — he can't block it out." Trembling in exhaustion and the echoes of phantom pain, she swallowed hard, finally managed to gulp the Gatorade down.

Joshua closed his eyes. "Empath. He's a re-usable victim. That's why — damn those bastards. Damn them to every single hell Samedi can conjure." He drew a deep breath. "The rest of it, partner. Get it out."

Somehow she managed, gulping Gatorade as she spoke and draining both bottles. She had to; there was no choice. Joshua made her draw the layout, the signs and circle, as much as Vão had seen, as much as she could remember, and she was on the verge of breakdown by the time she got through it. She was the ritual and religious magic expert, though she still had a lot to learn; Joshua was the unconventional, off-the-cuff, and on-the-fly strike-force.

"St. James of the Thunder, give him strength," Joshua murmured, his fist clenched around the medallion at his chest, "St. Michael Protector, hold them, uplift them, shield them with your wings…" Joshua broke off, head bowed. "Where?"

"I don't know, oh gods, _I don't know,_" Kris moaned, shivering. "I don't know New Orleans well enough. It felt that way." She waved a hand. "I saw the river before I connected, but I got all turned around when it did. Something…looked like old sweatshops. Vão didn't think they drove that far. He couldn't tell."

"The Marigny," Joshua muttered. "It has to be. Warehouse on the docks, Thatcher told them. It can't be Nicholl's. It'd be too big a risk for them."

"They're summoning. That was the thing in the center, where Rafe was." Kris had to stop, get control again. "Ceremonials used that to contain whatever they summoned."

"Containing what? Rafe?" Joshua stared. "And summoning — on top of him…or into him?_" _He helped her to her feet. "If they _are _summoning Expedite, even his Haitian incarnation, it makes no sense."

"If they're trying any white-washed voodoo on your home ground, they're idiots." She wobbled, as her arm and shoulder throbbed and her legs protested from sitting too long. Joshua handed her two more Demerol and glared at her until she used the last of the Gatorade to wash them down.

"Don't underestimate them," Joshua said. "Expedite's just the local variation. If some of those other sigils are what I think they are…"

"They are," Kris whispered.

Joshua's hands clenched. "We'll get 'em, _chè_. I swear it."

No sooner had they cleared the door — _"Joshua!"_ Alma waved them over from across the floor. "Phone. Hurry. It's Frank!"

"Oh _hell!" _Joshua shoved away, snatched the phone up, then swore. The receiver had only dial tone. "Did he say where?"

"Somewhere loud with lots of people," Alma said. "I just happened to be here when she answered it." She stared down at the woman at the desk, who flushed.

"I'm sorry, _mam'zelle,_ he kept asking for your nephew and I didn't know Joshua was even in New Orleans."

"He's called before?" Joshua said.

"Several times," the woman said. "Loud rude Yankee. He sounded drunk."

Then it rang again; this time Joshua grabbed it before the woman could. "Frank? Where are you?"Joshua shut up, listened. "Describe it. Where're you at? Okay. Okay. _Don't move. _Stay there. We're on our way." He hung up gently, spent a few seconds staring at the ceiling, visibly trying to calm down. "_Nainaine_, get a mobile ER team ready. I know where he's at, at least. Are there any other Blades in residence?"

Alma looked at the woman; the other shook her head. "Not in Center at the moment. Mar's team's at the Ramada."

"Hell no — no, strike that. They're manpower. Raise Mar. I don't care what you tell her. Get her people over here. I'll call from where Frank's at when I have more definite recon."

"Josh," Kris said. _"What happened?"_

"The cops tossed them out," Joshua stared at the desk, "so he and Joe went prowling dock-side."

"Oh gods…" Kris swallowed.

"They found the bastards." Joshua's gaze leveled on her. "And they caught Joe."


	16. Caught

"Look, boys." The beefy police commander was doing a good job of masking his irritation, but it was obvious that he neither believed them nor cared. It had been a long argument. "I don't need drunk white college boys telling me how to run my district. You saw these rock musicians get in a car. And you just happen to know it was the serial killer." He turned towards the rear office "You boys go rejoin the party, all right?"

"Excuse me?" Frank leaned over the desk. "We're giving you a lead on the killers and you're going to _ignore it?"_

"If we wasted time tracking down every half-baked 'lead' that comes in —"

"You'd have caught the killers by now," Joe snapped. Other cops looked up; they didn't look friendly.

"_One_ killer," the commander snapped back. "I really don't need paranoid drunk white boys making up facts and confusing the trail. Get out of my station."

The brothers stood there as the man stumped back into the office and slammed the door. Frank's hands were clenched; Joe wasn't so restrained.

"Josh was right," Joe snarled towards that closed door. "We're mistaking New Orleans cops for people who _care._ C'mon, Frank, we're gone." With that, Joe stalked out, but didn't slam the door, as much as he wanted to, Frank right on his heels.

"You and cops," Frank said, as they dodged through the revelers. "I really don't want to end up in jail again."

"I don't want to hear it." Joe rounded. "I'm sick of being pushed around. I wanna be the push-_er_ for a change. We know where they're at!"

"Y'know," Frank said, "there's a straight-forward kick-'em-in-the-teeth attitude about you that I've always admired —"

"Thank you," Joe snarled. "It usually takes a few nights of abuse to get in the mood, but I'm getting there quick."

"— but we don't even know this place might've just wanted to lure us to some spot along the way."

"Like you said last night, why lie? He thought he had us under his spell. He might've let the truth slip, especially if he wasn't expecting us to get away."

Frank studied him, an expression Joe was all too familiar with. "Okay," Frank said. "So the other big question. Why a warehouse? Why would they need one? All the killing sites so far have been on the streets."

Caught without an answer, Joe stopped. Revelers swirled around them. A trumpet-jazz band passed with an unholy mash-up of "When The Saints Go Marching In" and "Tiger Rag"; nearby, a drunk woman lifted her shirt, egged on by guys on an upper balcony who tossed strings of beads to her.

"That's it," Frank breathed. "_Souvenirs_. Serial killers _collect._ Like that guy in New York last year — the torso killer, Cottingham."

"They haven't found half the bodies," Joe whispered, sick. "And they don't know how high the count really is."

"Those guys — Karma — they're already dead, then, if that's what Thatcher wants…"

Joe shook his head. "Josh said they had to be planning something, something specific. The killers are using something like voodoo — that's what got him so mad. The way Tag talked, that all the scenes were the same…" Had Thatcher's book really been research? Or things Thatcher himself had done? There had been something in there…

As usual with anything to do with books, Frank beat him to it. "Thatcher's book talked about that. Ceremonial magic. Magicians have special places where they do rituals. They think it builds up power —" Frank stopped. "_That's why."_

Joe hadn't understood most of Kris and Joshua's explanations, but maybe something about famous people gave the killers more power, too. "Frank, we can't just sit around and do nothing. We need to try to find them —"

"No, Joe!"

"_No? _ We've cased places before."

"Yeah," Frank said, "and we've usually gotten caught. I remember Josh's fire, even if you don't want to. _We can't fight something like that._"

"You're scared."Joe meant it as a taunt. It didn't come out that way.

"Unlike you, I listened to what Kris was saying —"

"You actually _believed_ her, for a change?"

Frank ignored that. "— about what those killers are doing. How their victims died."

Joe looked away. "You think I didn't?"

Silence.

"I don't want to fight them," Joe said, his throat tight. "I definitely don't want to get caught. So we don't. They'll be occupied with Karma. They won't be paying attention. We scout, then run, and we get Josh and let _him _deal with it."

"Okay, Joe." Quiet, resigned. "We'll do it your way. Let's hope we don't need to run."

"Just for that," Joe said, "you get to be Butch Cassidy and go for the mule. I'll just be Robert Redford and look good worrying."

Governor Nicholl's Wharf was surprisingly easy to find and to get into. Governor Nicholl's Street dead-ended into the busy French Market; the wharf was right across North Peters Street, with a wide open access point that crossed a crowded parking lot and three sets of railroad tracks. But looking around, at first glance…

"Too busy," Frank said, echoing Joe's thought, as a cluster of loud and obnoxiously-drunk merchant marines swaggered by. "They wouldn't use this, not a working port. Especially not if it's owned by the government — I bet the rates here are sky-high."

Joe had been so sure; it'd seemed so obvious. This had to be it. It just had to be. He crossed the railroad tracks, around the storage warehouses — most open and packed with lumber, barrels, and huge crates, with semi-trailers parked in the loading bays — and onto the river-side. Two ships were in dock, one an old battered oil barge, the other a Navy vessel with flags fluttering from the railings and helm. People were everywhere: sailors — Navy, Merchant Marine, Coast Guard — dock laborers in grungy orange and beige, tourists snapping pictures, bored security guards watching anyone who got too close. Many of the dock-side warehouses were open, forklifts hauling corrugated storage containers in and out.

Frank stopped behind him. "Joe…"

"I know, I know." Frustrated, Joe shoved his hands in his pockets — the wind off the river was ferocious — and walked back towards the access gate. He stopped on the railroad tracks, let his gaze follow the tracks in both directions. Nothing obvious: one way ran around the corner between the docks and the concrete barrier, the other opened up to the river shore and a bike trail crowded with more tourists.

"Well, we tried," Frank sighed, as he led them both back out onto North Peters. "We can rule out one place, at least."

Across the street, the French Market was crowded to bursting, loud and noisy with hagglers and vendors hawking everything from jambalaya to Hawaiian leis, and the air smelled of barbecue, fresh bread, and deep-fried-everything. To Joe's right, North Peters followed the Wharf's outer wall, past a museum and towards a mess of electrical towers and run-down buildings — Joe cocked his head. Blocky, industrial buildings with casement windows and ugly electric towers strung with high-voltage wires, completely unlike the cramped narrow Quarter.

Frank was looking the same direction. "Josh said something about someplace near here. The Marigny."

"That it had a lot of old warehouses," Joe said. "What if…what if that's what Thatcher meant?" He started that direction, keeping to the sidewalk close to the concrete wall.

"Joe!" Frank ran to catch up. "C'mon, there's probably tons of old buildings around here that could be called warehouses — we can't search all of them."

"Not all of them," Joe said, not stopping. "They have to be using someplace close. Someplace they can get to fast, where people won't look too close and don't want to get involved."

"The way Josh talks, that's most of New Orleans," Frank said.

Many of the buildings within sight were boarded-up: definitely not the Quarter any more. They passed an electrical substation surrounded by a spiky iron fence — both fence and the towers covered in gang graffiti — another broken-fenced yard stinking of dog poop and with a lone barking pit bull, and on both sides of the street, mobile construction trailers piled with lumber and siding.

But then Joe halted; Frank bumped into him. Right in front of them, the first intersection off the main drag…a warehouse.

After the quaint French-Euro vibe and all the wedding-cake ironwork and architecture of the Quarter, the building was ugly: old yellow bricks, steel-frame casement windows smeared with grime, bricked-up openings and loading docks with steel roll-doors spaced across the St. Peters' side, huge blotches where graffiti had been sandblasted out. A plastic "Renovation in Progress! Call for rent!" sign was plastered over the front and flapped in the wind. Around the corner, the garage bay was open — a dark interior loading area, its inside docks piled with stacks of lumber and bricks. A dirty white van was parked between the two front-most docks.

"A warehouse near the docks," Frank murmured, nodding towards the concrete wall of Nicholls' Wharf, across the street. "And the wharf is right over there. Want to make a bet?"

Now, faced with it, Joe did not want to go near the place. His heart was pounding; he felt flushed, sweating, despite the cool day.

Like he had with the voodoo doll.

"Nope," Joe said, trying to sound flippant. No one was around; even the street was quiet. "You always win. After you."

"Me? This was _your _idea."

"You're the oldest," Joe said. "Butch Cassidy, remember?"

"Yeah, and they both got shot in that film." Frank settled into an arms-crossed glare. "If you're leaving it up to me, we're going right back to Alma's to call Josh."

Losing valuable time, time the kidnapped musicians didn't have. "Call him and say what, there's a spooky building with a van?" Saying that it felt weird — Joe wasn't about to say that to Frank. All of it sounded stupid, no matter how it was phrased. They had to be sure. Joe started across the street. "C'mon, Butch."

He ignored Frank's sigh; his brother would follow. Frank always did, just as Joe would if the situation was reversed. They'd always had each others' backs. But crossing into that dark space — Joe shivered, his skin crawling. The area had the feel of a thunderstorm, right before a lightning strike: charged, staticky. It was an experience he did _not_ want to repeat. No one was in sight; the loading bay was silent, chilly, and hollow-sounding.

"I feel like I'm too close to a Graaff generator," Frank murmured. "That big one at the Museum of Science."

If it was so obvious that even _Frank_ was feeling it…but Joe eyed the electric towers of the nearby substation, strung with high-tension lines. Probably only that. "I'll check the van and this dock. Take the next one."

"You're getting bossy in your old age," Frank said. "Who's the elder here?"

"Well, I didn't vote for you," Joe retorted. "You can't expect to wield supreme power just because some watery tart threw a sword at you."

"Bloody peasant," Frank said, and Joe grinned. Bayport College had shown the Python film last month; their friends had dragged them to it, on the excuse that the brothers were turning into their dad from all the work — and they'd further threatened the Hardys with _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ if that didn't work.

Smiling, Frank clapped Joe on the shoulder and moved on to the far door.

The van's windows were dark, as if blacked out or mirrored. Joe tried the van side door — unlocked. It slid open with a loud groan and a chunking noise. No seats in the rear, only driver and passenger. It smelled of sweat, semen, and heavy incense; he recognized frankincense and something vaguely like marijuana. Crushed, dried plant leaves littered the floor of the van; Joe rolled a bit of it between his fingers, but didn't recognize the earthy smell.

"Joe Hardy — what are you doing here?"

Joe jumped, throttled his yelp. Thatcher.

Eyeing Joe, Thatcher stood by the near door. He was in a long overcoat, head cocked, his flat eyes and round face quizzical.

"Sorry," Joe said, gulping air. Thatcher didn't look menacing, just curious. "You startled me."

"I thought you were not interested in helping me."

Fear sang at Joe to _run_. He wanted to run, but his thoughts ran opposite, in panicked, tightening circles. If he ran, Thatcher would know Joe knew and would bring the cops, and they'd move whatever they had and get away.

Or worse, Thatcher would find Frank…

…Frank, who hopefully had enough sense to not show himself…

His heart pounding, Joe forced himself to breathe slow, to keep his focus on Thatcher and not look around for his brother. Maybe Joe could bluff his way out. Thatcher was just an old man, after all, shorter than Joe, and Joe was in good shape. "The big brother thing." Joe tried to sound off-hand and casual. "Frank finally talked me into it. We couldn't find you at the bar, so we decided to sneak around on our own."

"I wanted to explore while Duveé was busy with his show." Thatcher's demeanor was his regular stuffy British professor, nothing unusual. He didn't look anything like a killer. "So your brother's here, as well?"

Joe swallowed; he hadn't wanted to mention Frank. "He's over at the Wharf. We split up to cover more ground." Joe clamped his mouth shut; he was too keyed up, waiting for something, _anything_ to happen…

Thatcher smiled. "No matter. I am glad you showed up. I need a strong young man to help. I've discovered something new."

"Proof?" Joe started to edge around Thatcher.

"Absolute certainty. Come. I'll show you."

"So let's get the cops." Joe turned, every nerve in his body screaming at him. "Come on."

Sudden movement at the corner of his sight, and Joe spun, barely dodged the blow, ended with his back against the van. He tried to sidestep, to get enough space to strike —

An opening — Joe lunged, lashed out at Thatcher's face —

— Thatcher wasn't there. A hard blow caught Joe across his lower back and _seared_ through his spine, a fiery shock of energy that tore the breath from him. His legs collapsed, nerveless, spasming, and Joe fell hard against the concrete, the impact knocking the breath from him. Thatcher was right there, on top of him, his knee in the small of Joe's back.

Thatcher grabbed Joe's arm, twisted it painfully back. Wheezing, fighting for air, Joe couldn't move his legs, couldn't get any leverage, couldn't breathe, couldn't think…

"Orrin?" A soft female voice. Joe couldn't see the speaker, not at that angle. It had to be Claire.

"Hand me the cuffs, dear, please." Thatcher grunted with effort to hold Joe pinned — Joe struggled for even a tiny bit of leverage, anything, but the woman grabbed Joe's other arm and twisted it back. Cold metal snapped around Joe's wrists. "He said his brother was about."

"Really?" A long pause. "He's lying. There's no one."

"I didn't think so." Thatcher got a grip on Joe's arm, just under the shoulder, and with Claire's help, hauled him onto the dock. Louder, "Frank did not strike me as one to stay back when his younger brother is going to die." His voice echoed through the dark loading docks.

Joe couldn't move his legs; he couldn't even _feel_ them. His heart hammering, head spinning, panic and fear stole all thought, all hope. Gulping air, he managed to get just enough breath. _"Frank! Get out! Run!"_

Thatcher dropped him. Unable to brace himself, Joe's shoulder and head cracked against the dock. Before he could yell anything more, Claire shoved a thick strip of cloth into his mouth, then covered it with duct tape, gagging him. Dizzy, nauseous, Joe looked up.

Thatcher had pulled a gun, watched the space.

Nothing moved. A long, tense moment, then Thatcher turned, his overcoat gaping open, and Joe froze, horror taking any remaining breath and thought from him.

Under the coat, Thatcher's turtleneck was splattered with blood.

This time, Claire hauled Joe up, dragged him through the door as Thatcher kept a wary watch, then closed and locked the door behind them with a final, echoing click. They dragged Joe through an office space: desks, cabinets, scattered papers, ledgers, changes of clothing hanging from racks. Then, through another door and into a larger space that rang with metallic echoes and was filled with crates stacked four and five high and ridged steel barrels that had green streaks leaking from sealed covers.

It stank of formaldehyde, bleach and rotting meat — memory hit, dissecting a shark in high school, and Joe squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see, not wanting to know. He was going to die. There wasn't any way Frank would get help in time. He was going to die, just like Josette.

The thick static-electric feel hammered against him; Joe swallowed hard against nausea and fear. The dragging stopped, and he was pulled up to his knees.

"You will open your eyes," Thatcher said. When Joe didn't obey, cold metal pressed under his chin, against his throat. "Open your eyes."

In front of him, light. A tiled red circle was lit with thick candles at the quarter points and marked with chalk-scrawled signs and Arabic-looking lettering. The circle vibrated with light, laser-sharp, metallic-edged, and Joe's fear was edged with wonder: the light was _beautiful…_

But at the base of the nearest candle, a blond man lay bound in black cord, stripped, unconscious, covered in blood. Beyond him, someone else — Joe yanked his gaze away, only to find himself staring at another man gagged and bound upright to a concrete pillar at another quarter point, arms over his head, long black hair lank with sweat. The man's arms were streaked with blood, his wrists raw and bleeding where the cord had dug in.

With a shock of horror, Joe recognized him. Vão Carvalo, Karma's singer.

Vão raised his head to meet Joe's gaze. Then Vão turned his head away, his entire body tensed as if waiting for a blow.

"Claire, dear, remove Joe's gag, please," Thatcher said. Calm, pleasant, every-day. "He has a lovely voice. I will enjoy hearing him."

The duct tape ripped free, the cloth removed, and Joe couldn't let the despair in Vão's face go unanswered, no matter the cost. "Vão, _Kris's okay —"_

"Oh, was that the annoying little mouse I swatted on the street?" Thatcher said. "I assure you, she most definitely was not 'okay' by the time we finished with her."

"That's what you think," Joe snapped, then caught himself. If he let anything slip, if Thatcher got any idea that others were helping the brothers, that Frank had been outside after all…they'd be moved.

His gaze assessing, Thatcher walked around Joe. "Claire, would you like him first?"

Joe held himself still. He would not break, he would _not_.

"He is beautiful," Claire said. "But no, thanks. I have the one I want. I don't want to make him jealous."

"Beautiful, yes," Thatcher murmured, his hand on Joe's shoulder; another long pause. "Oh, a virgin? Excellent! That I did not expect. This will be fun. Nathaniel was becoming boring." Then his grip was under Joe's arm, dragging him into the circle.

A fiery shock of electricity burnt through Joe's chest and head; he struggled against Thatcher's grip. But Thatcher dropped Joe face-down at Vão's feet, then moved away. Joe managed to roll a little, tried to get his feet under him, but the muscles responded only weakly, as if just waking up —

Then Claire was holding his legs down, binding them with black cord.

"Strip him first, my dear, please," Thatcher said.

Things hit the concrete nearby with metallic chinks and soft rubbery noises. Joe glanced, but his line of sight was blocked by Thatcher, who knelt to stroke Joe's face. Revolted, Joe jerked back, but Thatcher had tangled his hand in Joe's hair, stopping him.

"Well, then," Thatcher said, smiling, "let's see how long you last before you become boring, too." He moved just enough to give Joe a clear look at the things near his head.

Only one had Joe's full attention.

A hacksaw.


	17. Choice

Luck, that was all it was, idiotic, insane luck. Frank heard Thatcher's voice and hit the ground behind a lumber pile, praying he hadn't been spotted —

— then wished he had been, that Thatcher had seen him instead. Not his brother, not Joe. Hands clenched, heart pounding, Frank listened to Joe try to bluff his way out…then a fight broke out. Frank forced himself to stay down — why didn't Joe _run?_ They'd agreed, Joe had said that's what he'd do, he hadn't wanted to get caught, he couldn't be —

Then his brother — his younger brother — cried out, followed by the sound of someone hitting the concrete, then a woman's voice and Thatcher's taunt. Frank nearly exploded up then, only for Joe's yell to freeze him in place.

The realization — the necessity — was hard, cold, terrifying. That old man had taken Joe out somehow, just as they'd taken out all the others. If they took _Frank_ out too, then no one would know. No one. It wasn't just Joe. There were others…

He had to get help. He had to.

Hands clenched, heart hammering in his throat, Frank stayed down, tense and tight against the ground as splinters and rubble dug into his skin_._ Dragging sounds, a metal door closing with a solid chunk. Silence. Cautiously, Frank peered over the top of the lumber pile — no one in sight — then pushed up from his terrified, tense crouch, staggered over towards the door.

There Frank stopped. They wouldn't be expecting him. He could sneak in. He could attack, somehow. Thatcher was just an old man, and Frank was a brown belt, and he couldn't just leave Joe, he couldn't, not when he _knew_ what was going to happen.

Dad's voice was a warning memory in Frank's ear: _heroes only manage to die young. _Thatcher had an accomplice. They had magic. If they had guns…or did something like Joshua's fire…

Frank couldn't fight that, not alone.

His heart clenched. "God help you, Joe," Frank whispered, staggered out into the sunlight, and took off running. His legs were rubbery; his breath burned in his chest. He barely heard the car horns blowing as he dodged across North Peters. It took forever, more time than Joe had left, definitely — finally Frank was crossing into the crowded French Market and shoved into the first market-stall, past startled customers and doll-laden shelves and up to the counter.

"Please…" Frank couldn't catch his breath, exhaustion and terror making him lightheaded. "I need to use your phone. Please."

An old black man with close-cropped grey hair and a grey US Marines t-shirt and a young woman with a short afro were behind the counter. Both looked irritated at the intrusion — but then the man took a closer look. "Who's after you?"

"_Please. _I need the phone."

The man said something Frank didn't understand, and the young woman started shooing people out of the stall. The man came around the counter, ushered Frank back, pushed him into a chair. "Sit, _chè_. You look about to drop. Here." He pulled the phone over, an ancient rotary with cracked plastic and ragged cords plugged into an old socket on a nearby support pole.

Frank fumbled in his pocket for the slip of paper, managed to dial. His hands felt clumsy, huge. A strange voice answered: wrong number. He hung up. His vision was blurring; he was trembling. Breathing hard, he wiped at his face, trying to calm down, couldn't.

"You know Alma Duprè?" The man peered at the paper.

"Her nephew Joshua." Frank picked up the phone, about to dial again. The man stopped him.

"The second number. You know what it is?"

Why did this matter? Frank opened his mouth, then stopped, got control. "The Center."

Nodding, the man said something else to the woman, who turned towards one of the shelves and lit candles in front of the religious dolls there — angels, saints, Frank couldn't tell, didn't care. Frank picked up the phone again, got the number right this time. Roy picked up — no, Alma was still at the Center, Joshua still hadn't returned.

Hands were on Frank's shoulders. "Breathe, boy," the man said. "Whatever chases you will not find you. Not here. I swear it."

The man took the phone from him, dialed the second number, then handed Frank the phone. A woman answered — dismissive, _no, Joshua isn't here, no, Alma isn't here, do not yell at me_ — and hung up. Frank swore under his breath, managed the number himself this time, and got hung up on, again. And again.

The fourth time, the man took the phone from him again, dialed the number, and spoke sharply into the phone. "Joshua Thomas is there. If you cannot find him, _mam'zelle,_ then find Alma. Do it. Stop being lazy, Clea, unless you want Council on your head." He waited, then handed the phone to Frank.

A voice, then dial tone again. Magic — what if the killers' magic was doing this, stopping him from getting help? It was too much. It was taking too long, Frank couldn't make them understand, and Joe was _dying_…

"Who's after you?" the old man said again. Murmuring in the rhythm of chant, the woman set a gilded wooden icon on the counter, lit a candle in front of it, a golden angel with an upraised sword: the Archangel Michael.

Frank couldn't take his gaze from it. "The serial killers. They've got my brother. I had to leave him — I have to get help —"

The man inhaled sharply. "Calm yourself. Call again."

This time, Joshua answered, and Frank nearly broke down in relief. He got the story out — at one point, the man took over the phone and gave Joshua directions to the stall —but by the time Frank hung up with Joshua's warning to _stay there_ ringing in his head, he was panicking. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't just sit here and do nothing, while Joe was —

The woman set a cup in front of him. "Drink. Valerian root. It stinks to high heaven, but it will calm you. It will do you no good to have a heart attack before the Hunter gets here."

Alma had called Joshua that, and then what these people had said and done sunk in. "Thank you," Frank whispered.

But he couldn't calm down and he wasn't about to drink any tea. He shoved up to his feet to pace. He wanted to do something, anything but wait. The old man excused himself to a curtained-off area behind the counter, and came back out with a gun holstered at his side and a knife sheathed against his left leg; that provoked a brief, sharp argument in Creole between him and the young woman.

Movement burst through the crowds of people in the market, then into the stall: Joshua, followed by Kris. Relieved and fighting not to break down, Frank grabbed her in a tight, shaking hug before she could flinch away. One of her arms was inside her shirt — in a cast, Frank realized with a shock.

Kris gasped in pain and pulled away. "Broken shoulder." Her voice shook. "Among other things. Take my gun, big brother. I know you can handle a .45."

"Partner…"

"He's got both hands and he knows how to shoot," Kris snapped. "Don't argue, Josh, _I haven't had a good day_."

Joshua only looked at her, then snagged Frank's shoulder, steered him out of the stall and Market, into the sunshine and facing towards North Peters. "Which way?"

His calm manner was settling Frank down. Frank nodded down the street, as he strapped on the holster and checked the gun: loaded, safety on. "Ugly yellow brick building, next to the Wharf, if you follow that wall around. Looked like a warehouse. It had a rent sign on the front."

"At Marigny?" At Frank's nod, Joshua pulled him back inside; Kris was sitting down, head in her good hand, pale and shivering. But then Joshua stopped, seeing the old man. "Noel? This is where you're sitting now?"

"He told me what was going on." The old man stood at loose attention. "Need help?"

"Noel Walker," Joshua said to Kris and Frank. "One of my teachers. He's supposed to be enjoying retirement. Yes, please," that, politely, to Noel. "If your daughter can work whatever _gris-gris_ she can to give this one," he thumped Frank's shoulder, "the protection of Saints Teflon and Kevlar, I'll make damn sure to bring you Uncle's Roy's private barbecue. With _Nainaine's_ etouffee." Joshua snagged the phone up, punched a number, spoke in sharp Creole.

"She already did," the old man said.

Joshua finished the conversation, then looked again at Frank and gently hung the phone up. "Right. Thank you. There may be a team coming this way, some of the Bay Area people. Point them our way, too, please."

They were arguing about voodoo and barbecue while Joe was — _"Josh…"_

Kris's hand was on Frank's shoulder. "Easy, big brother," she said softly. "This's important, even if you don't see it. There's rules."

"Delia will do that," Noel said to Joshua. "I'm reporting for duty. And don't argue, young'un. NOLA's too shorthanded for you to refuse. I've been trying to track the killer myself."

"Unlike her," Joshua nodded at Kris, "I have sense. Accepted, sir. Let's move. I'll brief you on the way."

Despite his panic, Frank tried not to run, mindful of the old guy and Kris (who was staggering, her mouth tight) and only half-listening to what Joshua was telling Noel — how Joshua had some of that information, Frank had no idea — but Joshua shoved him ahead with a terse "Move". They passed by the electric station and towers; Joshua slowed.

"I'd forgotten this — Jesus _wept._" Joshua's stare moved from the substation to the ugly yellow warehouse. "No wonder they've had the power. Plan changed. We need to regroup."

"This way." Noel jerked his head behind the electric station. "More cover."

They dodged through torn fencing, around a cluster of decrepit delivery trucks and tottering piles of stacked pallets, and ended crouched behind a dumpster surrounded with rusted ice machines about thirty yards away. Frank was fuming: the loading bay was right there, no one in sight. "I don't believe this. Why aren't we —"

"Frank." Kris gripped his shoulder, her voice shaking, "I know, big brother. _I know._ But _listen to me._ Remember what I said about Circle Hills? About me tapping into Joe?"

What this had to do with anything — but Frank waited.

"Look at that substation," Kris said. _"They've tapped into that._"

"Think what I could've done with that fireball," Joshua said, "if I'd had that fueling it."

"Before they grabbed —" Frank stopped, got control of his voice, "I felt like I was near that big Graaff generator."

Kris nodded. "If it's strong enough that _you're _feeling it — that's _nuclear bomb level_. One wrong move, and if we're lucky, it'll just kill us and whoever else is in there."

Frank didn't want to ask. He did anyway. "And if we're not?"

"See those houses over there?" Joshua said.

Frank didn't need to look. He could hear the people, music, laughter, kids screeching. Normal, everyday, real…

"Point is," Joshua said, "you follow orders. Don't do_ shit _unless we tell you to. And if we tell you to shoot, you shoot to kill. No matter what. No matter _who_."

"I understand," Frank said evenly.

"I know you do, _chè_." Joshua gripped Frank's shoulder. "Believe me, I know. Hawk, Noel's pyro and Sight. Think you can link to Vão, then let Noel join and fire those crates to hell?"

Kris shook her head. "Too many crates. Do that, the entire place goes up. We'd be dragging 'em out of a firestorm on top of the nuke."

"Damn," Joshua said. "We need a diversion —"

"Heads up," Noel said. "Company. Armed and dangerous."

Frank felt a despairing sigh slip from his breath.

Duveé stood at the edge of the loading bay.


	18. Hellfire

"Well, I wanted a diversion," Joshua muttered.

Kris's arm throbbed as adrenaline overwhelmed the pain meds, but she didn't dare take more Demerol, not now. There was business.

Recognizing the man from the murder scene, Kris glanced at Joshua, who mouthed "Duveé" at her. Duveé stared into the loading bay, then stepped into the dark interior, around a van that was parked inside and towards a door up on the first dock. He ran his hands over the jamb, then opened the door and stepped through, leaving it open behind him.

"He's triggered every single alarm they've got," Joshua said. "Wonderful."

"One of them?" Noel said.

Joshua breathed out. "Now…I don't know. We'll either see an explosion the size of Nagasaki in a moment, or we're in deep trouble."

"Alarm?" Frank said.

"It's warded." Kris flushed when Frank gave her a _look_. "Um. Like a magic fence with a guard dog. To warn the owner that something's there that shouldn't be there."

Joshua gave Frank a steady stare. "And they can be set to bite. _Hard. _You were lucky that you weren't paralyzed when Thatcher came out to check."

"Warning taken," Frank said quietly.

Joshua nodded. "Let's go, while Duveé's got their attention. Hawk, I'll raise a pass-through from the bottom edge. You first, then guide Frank through."

Unspoken: Joshua knew her crawling with that arm would be torture. Another test. She invoked her mage-sight, as Joshua slid a wedge of energy under the bottom of the wards and pried them up. Hopefully, the killers hadn't thought to set alarms on something like this.

"Go," Joshua said from clenched teeth, his face sheened in sweat.

Gritting her teeth, Kris slid through on her left side, then marked the edges of the pass-through with small rocks, beckoned Noel and Frank over; Noel stopped Frank a few inches from the wards. "Stay low," Kris said to Frank, and placed her left hand right below the top edge. "Don't touch the rocks or my hand. Move quick. He can't hold long."

"I felt that," Frank murmured, once he and Noel were crouched on the other side near her and Joshua was crawling through. "I'm not — what good am I going to be against this?"

Joshua grabbed Frank's shoulder. "Stop the _I'm-useless_ shit." Low, snarled, Joshua's _unfreeze-the-recruit_ voice. "If you were useless, you'd be tied up back at the Market. Now focus. There's business."

With that, Joshua pushed up and edged around the van, then flattened against the wall to the right of the door; his gaze traveled over it, studying, assessing.

"Just an army sergeant," Frank breathed. "Yeah, right."

Kris's arm and shoulder were on fire; the Demerol had definitely worn off. She tried to use her small touch of Healing to nerve-block; the pain faded some, just enough so she could concentrate. "Stay behind me." Kris stared down Frank's protest. "I can shield magic and you can fire over me. Problem?"

"Your shield stops bullets?" Frank glared back.

She closed her eyes. He would ask that. "No."

Signaling an _all-clear_, Joshua gestured them over, as he pulled his .45 and moved to the other side of the door, nudging it open further, just enough to see in. Noel was on the immediate right, Kris and Frank behind him. Joshua slipped inside, Noel right behind him after a _stay-here_ gesture at Kris. Waiting, Kris watched, tense, listening, breathing through the pain of her shoulder and arm.

"You're not taking a bullet for me, Tag," Frank growled. "End statement."

Joshua and Noel slipped back out before she could answer that, and pulled them away from the door. They crouched down, Joshua speaking in low tones as he sketched out a crude map on the concrete with a Sharpie.

"Office space, right past the door. Big window all along it, crates stacked outside that, so we can't see them, but they can't see us either. Space between crates and window. Hawk…"

Sound echoed from the door, from whatever space was beyond it: a deep, measured voice that had to be Duveé, another muffled speaker.

Then, too clearly, an agonized cry.

Frank blanched. Biting her lip, Kris gripped his shoulder. She wanted to go _now,_ to run in _now…_

"I meant what I said about following orders," Joshua said.

Frank didn't answer. Joshua's hard gaze moved to Kris; Kris bowed her head. Bad enough that she knew what they'd find, but Frank probably had never seen violent death before, definitely had never seen torture and abuse. If — when — he saw Joe…

"Easy, boy," Noel murmured, to Frank. "It means he's alive."

"Right," Joshua said. "Hawk, the power's feels like it's concentrated in the center. That circle you saw, I'll bet."

Frank's head came up; he stared from Joshua to Kris. _"Saw?_"

Kris spoke slowly, thinking out loud. "Ceremonial. They're building up a lot of power in there. I think…think…they had a containment. So…break the circle, the power breaks, backlashes. Boom." She looked up. "They have big antique candle stands at the quarter points. _Heavy_ stands. If we break the tile…"

"If they've done it right," Joshua said, "they're grounding and focusing it themselves, to direct it to their goal…"

"And I thought your explanations made no sense when I _didn't _believe you," Frank muttered, to Kris.

"Think of it like electricity, _chè," _Joshua said patiently. "Like…like a Graff generator, and they've surrounded it with magic chicken-wire."

"A Faraday cage, you mean, to ground it," Frank said, then his face lit with understanding. "You want to remove the cage."

"Exactly. Break it, energy snaps to the closest ground. It'll backlash right into the ones who deserve it most." Joshua grinned suddenly, savage, feral. "I'm not feeling merciful at the moment."

"Oh gods — _Rafe,"_ Kris said. "If it's grounded through him…or…or…"

Joshua stared her down; Kris swallowed her words. She knew the necessity, and hated it: first goal was bringing down the killers without blowing up the neighborhood. Any survivors past that were a bonus.

But that meant Vão…Rafe…Joe…

"Hawk," Joshua said, "can your TK handle those stands?"

"TK," Noel said in an undertone, to Frank, "telekinesis."

She forced herself to think. "If I pull 'em from the top. I'll need line of sight."

"It looked like the crates go 'round a ways," Noel said. "Josh, you and me hold their attention front and center, let these two sneak 'round and ambush from the rear. Frank can cover Hawk, that way."

"Why not just shoot them?" Frank's voice didn't shake, much.

"Because bullets don't kill instantly," Joshua said. "If we hit both of 'em _right_, they lose control in pain-shock. The grounds go dead, we're in deep shit_ —"_

"The magic'll jump to other conductors, you mean," Frank said, staring at Kris; she looked away again.

"— and if our aim is off, then we've got two pissed-off blood-mages with four easy victims right there and a lot of power to retaliate with."

"Or you miss and then we've got close-quarter ricochet to deal with," Noel said.

"I don't _believe_ I actually understood that," Frank breathed. "And if Kris can't TK them?"

Joshua met Kris's gaze again. She knew what to do, but she wasn't going to say it out loud, not after Frank's declaration of not letting her take a bullet.

"We'll deal with it if we come to it." Joshua glanced towards the door. "Me and Noel first, you two after. Move."

The overwhelming stink of formaldehyde and rotting meat made Kris gag, and she fought the urge to cover her nose — couple minutes, it would go numb. Joshua and Noel halted at the inner door, their guns out; Joshua caught her gaze and tapped three fingers against the gunstock, two, one…

Fire flared; he'd tossed paper wads up into the air, and Noel fired them in a brilliant, eye-searing burst. Joshua and Noel charged to the opening in the crates and stood to either side behind that cover, as she and Frank dove through, hit the ground on the far side behind the other stacks. She clenched her jaw against the fire in her shoulder and arm, as Frank helped her up —

Noise, from beyond the crates: gagging, whimpering.

His eyes squeezed shut, Frank's mouth moved; his hand found Kris's good one, his grip tight.

"All right, you sons of bitches," Joshua called out. "I'm giving you a chance you don't deserve. Surrender now, you get to live."

"That is your second warning, Orrin," came Duveé's deep voice; Frank got a grip under Kris's good shoulder, supporting her as they carefully moved behind the cover of the crates and mounds covered in tarpaulin, towards the far end of the warehouse. "The _orishas_ gather against you. The _loas_ have found their champions. You only summon that which will bring your destruction."

"And yet," Thatcher said, "you are out there, and I am in here. If they use those guns, they know what will happen. You bluff, young man. Otherwise you would have shot first. You want us to walk away from these protections. Which we will not do, I assure you."

"Keep talking," Joshua said, matching Thatcher's tone. "You'll see what I really want."

They'd reached the end of the stacks. Kris pressed on Frank's shoulder — _stay-here _— and slid forward to peer around. There: the circle, glowing bright and deadly, the nearest candle stand right next to the pillar where Vão was tied, Joe curled and bound at his feet — oh gods…

Not nameless strangers; not a vision, surreal and distant. It was…that was _Joe_, her big brother…and Vão…and…She saw Nathaniel, also stripped and bound, unmoving, and beyond him, Rafe…

Breathing out hard, Kris forced herself to study the layout, to read the energy-patterns. Before she broke _anything,_ she had to know what was going down. Major power glowing in the visible range, vibrating with blood and pain…the hard edges of the warding…a containment pattern inside _that_…some odd structure right over Rafe…

Kris ducked back fast. The woman she'd seen earlier was pressed up against Vão, was turning to study the area behind; she held a knife against Vão's side.

_Woman_, Kris mouthed at Frank. _Watching. I need to see. _She mimed a stand collapsing.

Frank gave her a slow, bare nod.

"Your decoy attempt is boring and expected," Thatcher was saying. "Grant me the benefit of intelligence, please. I will simply go on with my work here," the gagging sounds increased sharply, "and you can do nothing, because you know what will happen if you shoot or cross the circle."

"All you're doing is convincing me to shoot now and damn the consequences," Joshua said.

"But you will not. You are the one I saw last night." A smile slid into Thatcher's voice. "Yes. The hunter. You had someone else helping you, though. That little mouse I swatted earlier, perhaps?"

"Cocky bastard, ain't he?" Noel said.

"They always are," Joshua said. "You're boring _me,_ Thatcher, and you don't have a mustache to twirl."

So Thatcher had been there and caught them both, and neither she nor Joshua had spotted him…which meant Thatcher was far better than either of them.

"We should've killed her," the woman said. "She was trying to keep me from _Estevão._ She was so rude to him in front of everyone. She doesn't know what he really wants."

"Calm yourself, dear. They run a bluff so we don't notice what they're really doing. So. Where is the one I expected?" Thatcher sounded interested, but not concerned. "I hadn't thought he'd be so cowardly as to stay behind. Not with his brother _dying."_

"Beware," Duveé said. "You walk the edge."

"My dear Duveé," Thatcher said, "don't insult us with the stage act. As for you, young hunter, let's see whom else you've brought. I doubt you truly thought only two would be enough. So…"

Thatcher grunted, followed by wet slithery noise, struggling, Joe gasping, fighting not to scream.

Frank had gone white, hands pressed against the crates. Her good hand clenched, Kris held herself still. She would not jump up. She would not break cover, not yet. They had to break that circle.

"Blood calls to blood," Thatcher said. "An unbreakable law of magic. Let's find out how much blood it takes, shall we?" Jagged, wet, ripping noise: Joe's scream broke loose, choked off, echoed in a gagging cry from Vão. "I can keep this up as long as you wish. I haven't finished with his feet, after all."

Frank's gaze met hers for a brief instant, then —

"Thatcher." Frank shoved up before Kris could stop him, away from the crates, out into the open. "Stop it. I'm here."

No other option. No other choice. Kris shoved herself up, staggered over in front of Frank, body-checking him to shield him from those bastards' magic. Frank halted, halfway between the crates and the circle; from his breathing, he was barely holding himself in check. The full sight of that glowing, deadly circle, of Thatcher smiling, of what had been done to Joe —

Joe's gaze fixed on them, and he suddenly stilled

Frank shoved Kris back behind him. "No, Tag. _Focus."_

Then she realized —

"Oh, the little mouse survived!" Thatcher sounded delighted. "I underestimated you. Now stop right there," he twisted the saw across skin; Joe inhaled sharply, "though it won't really matter. Come forward, Frank, since you insist on being a gentleman. Claire, dear, remove that gun he's carrying, please, before he gets ideas."

— Frank had gotten her in sight of the candle stands.

From across the room, Kris saw Joshua's stare, his slow nod, his shift of aim.

Then Frank lunged past Claire and grabbed the candle stand nearest, just as Kris flung her TK out, yanked another top-down —

— and all hell broke loose.

_**# # # #**_

Joe couldn't see past the haze of blood. All feeling gone, all sense gone. Nothing existed but pain, cutting, burning, thrusting. His throat was raw and swollen, burning from the acrid fumes of hydrochloric acid, his back and chest blistered, his left arm limp, his legs numb save for raw, throbbing jolts near his ankles, the concrete slick with blood — his own. He could smell it, see it.

He thought he heard Duveé's voice, but then hands grabbed Joe by the hair and lifted him partially up. That tore a cry from him — the hands dropped him back to the ground, and Thatcher bent over him again, old wrinkled hands stroking Joe's face. Joe whimpered, but didn't have the strength to jerk away — he wasn't even sure it was real. He was seeing things through the haze, lines, shapes…

Figures moved at the edges of the circle, near the barrels. They watched with solemn faces, their eyes obscured in deep wells of shadow.

Near Joe's feet, Vão hung limp, as the woman, Claire, ground against him. Light twisted around Vão, brutal red lines that cut into him, binding…something. Half-aware, darkness rising around him, Joe couldn't turn his gaze away. Something…something Joshua had said about Vão…

Light and fire flashed through the haze. More voices — Joe couldn't recognize who. Then the hands hauled Joe up and dragged him back; fresh pain seared through him. Joe fought not to scream, but jagged metal ripped across his raw skin, and the scream tore loose, choking him through his raw throat.

Then he saw Frank, just beyond the circle.

Joe's heart froze.

Kris — their little tagalong — dodged in front of his brother, checking him to a stop, but Frank only shoved her back. Blurry, brilliant light haloed them both: fire, wings, a blade upraised and ready to strike. Right near Joe's ear, Thatcher's voice ordered Frank forward, for Claire to disarm him, and Joe _knew_ what Thatcher wanted to do to Frank, to his _brother…_

For an instant, Frank met Joe's gaze —

— then lunged.

Terror, horror, rage, denial, all shocked through Joe, a storm of adrenaline clearing the haze from his brain, focusing him _now, here_. He was dying — he could feel it — there was no rescue for him — but not Frank, not Tag, not…not…_no. No._

Joe didn't think, didn't question, just _knew, _deep in his gut, and somehow hurled the last of his energy with fading strength —

— at the light binding Vão.

The light shattered, as Frank smashed a candle stand onto the tile-circle, and another stand flung itself down, both powdering the tile beneath.

The glowing, lethal circle of light burst in a soundless explosion up from the tile, collapsing, tightening —

Claire lashed out; Frank barely dodged in time. Snarling, hissing magic coiled above Claire's head as she rounded, seeking, _striking —_but Kris rammed her, and the halo of light and fire around Kris raged into Claire's face —

Shots rang out, in front of and behind Joe.

— as Thatcher set the hacksaw hard into Joe's throat, his voice breathing into Joe's ear. "Well. At least you weren't _boring…"_


	19. Brothers

Overwhelming agony, invasion, terror: from Nathaniel, from the young man bound at his feet. Vão couldn't block it, couldn't do anything but beg for it to stop, for them to kill him instead, anything. He couldn't tell where _he_ stopped and the others started, the pain echoing and feeding back on him in an ever-increasing rise of agony, and Vão thrashed against the bonds, screaming, begging, pleading, until his pleas sobbed out in whispers through his raw, broken throat.

It had finally stopped from Nathaniel. Vão couldn't feel anything now from him, though Vão's own body still shuddered from the continued strangling, rape, broken bones, acid-burned skin — Vão wanted to rage, wanted to strike, wanted these bastards to feel every last minute of what they'd done, but his projective Gift was bound, blocked, stopped, and the bastards shielded.

Then a small cessation: Joshua's voice rang through the space, distracting the killers from their new victim, the young man who'd told him Kris was okay — and then real chaos broke out.

A raging shock of energy struck Vão, his whole body ringing with the blow —

— as the bindings _shattered._

Rage, pain, revenge, all a hot knife through his brain. Vão raised his head as Thatcher dragged the young man back and set a jagged saw to his throat.

Vão struck.

###

The lethal light of the circle exploded, fountained up —

Her vision graying out, Kris staggered; coming on top of everything else, that bit of TK left her head pounding. The heavy stand jarred from his hands, Frank barely dodged Claire's knife, rounded, dodged again — but death-magic coiled around Claire, hissing red-black light rising up— _seeking —_

_No!_

The circle-light _burned_ through Kris's shields as she rammed Frank aside just as Claire's knife struck. It bit deep into Kris's shoulder, but she lashed out with everything she had left: all the rage, all the terror, panic-stricken desperation that flashed gold-fire…

A shot rang out right above Kris's head, deafening her, as a concussive shock of raw energy cracked behind her. Claire's face burst into blood; clawing at her face, she staggered back, and another shot ripped through her chest.

The death-magic _struck._

Too fast, too much, too soon — Kris couldn't block, couldn't dodge —

Frank grabbed her around and down to the ground, shielding her with his own body, as Joshua shouted something that rang through the magic. Impact crunched through to bone; light seared through her eyes. Frank's arms tightened, then loosened, his breath sobbing out.

Kris struggled up. Thatcher had backed away, the hacksaw pressed against Joe's throat and set for the slash. At that angle, neither Joshua nor Noel could fire without killing Joe, too.

Then Vão cried out, and Thatcher _screamed_.

The saw dropped. Thatcher collapsed, clutching at his head, convulsing. Limp, unmoving, Joe dropped to the floor.

The whole space _rang_. Energy-pressure tightened, compacted — and halted, a trembling, massive weight of glowing black poised above them, on the edge and ready to fall.

In the circle, his arms stretched up, Duveé.

"Get your people out," Duveé said. Deep. Calm. Accepting. "Now."

Smeared with blood, Frank was on his knees, urging her up. Dazed, Kris only blinked at him, hearing him speak but not understanding — he was _alive?_

From the fire in her shoulder, the set of her bone was gone, the front of her shirt blood-soaked, her skin raw and blistering where the light had cracked her shields. It _hurt._

Frank hauled her to her feet. Kris staggered, then collapsed against the pillar where Vão was bound, and sawed at the bindings with her knife. The area around the pillar boiled with energy, a blatant, open signature she didn't recognize.

"You had your k-bar," Frank snapped, "and you took her on _bare-handed?"_

She started to snap back, but other movement caught her gaze. "_Josh, no! It's set against Gift!"_

"I cannot dis-arm," Duveé said. "I can only hold at bay."

Joshua gave Kris one of those _looks, _and both he and Noel dodged into the circle. The energy pulsed, crackled; Joshua skidded on his knees. For a moment, he remained shuddering on the ground, then pushed up towards Joe, placed a hand against Joe's neck. "He's still alive. Noel, get Vão out of here — he's a projective Empath with no shields. Get out and stay out. Guide our teams in."

His bonds cut, Vão collapsed from the pillar; Noel caught him. "Nate's dead," Vão gasped. "I can't feel him…god, god, _god…"_

"C'mon, son," Noel said, and half-dragged, half-carried Vão out.

Frank had gone to his knees beside Joe. "Help him, Hawk," Joshua said. "See what you can do. I'll get Rafe."

Panting, Kris spent a moment assessing her own injuries. Shoulder stab: bleeding, but slow, not spurting. The stab had gone deep; the set on the broken bone was definitely gone. Pounding head. She'd live. Pushing away from the pillar, Kris collapsed to her knees, and laid a hand beside Frank's on Joe's shoulder, managed a small shock of energy. Joe moaned, stirred.

"He's in shock," Frank said, through gritted teeth. He'd stripped off his jacket, laid it over his brother, then took Kris's knife to cut the bonds on Joe's feet. But Frank glanced up, then at Duveé, then re-focused on cutting Joe's bonds. "Boom," Frank muttered, his jaw set. "So who's it grounded through? Is that what happened to Thatcher?"

Even in the middle of imminent, earth-shattering doom, Frank insisted on _everything-had-to-make-sense._ Kris rubbed at her eyes, squinted. "Not Joe," she said; Frank breathed out. At the moment, Kris didn't care beyond that. A small twist of her TK inside the lock released the cuffs on Joe's wrists, though it set her head pounding even worse.

First assessment wasn't good. Joe's calves had been tied off with crude tourniquets, gaping jagged wounds at the backs of his heels, extensive bruising, deep cuts in his back, thinner razored-lines on his chest marking out a pentagram, a sheen of viscous liquid over raw, blistered areas of his skin…

"Hey, Tag," Joe whispered, no strength, barely conscious. "You look terrible."

"Easy, Joe," Frank murmured, gripping Joe's good hand. "don't move. We're getting you out —" Then Frank's gaze met Kris's, and slid past, behind her; his breath hissed in. "Oh…dear God."

"_Hawk,"_ Joshua's voice cut through, cold command. "Get over here. _Now."_

Kris saw the pain and fear in Frank's face, the same that she was holding back. "Keep talking to him. Keep him fighting." Then she stumbled over, past Thatcher still moaning on the ground: soft, disgusting noises.

"Don't cross those lines," Joshua said, as she skidded down. "This thing's armed and live. It's tied in to all _that_. _What the fuck is it for?"_

Rafe was awake, un-gagged and un-bound; Joshua had managed that much. Hands clenched, Rafe lay curled against the concrete, watching Kris with calm, dark eyes. Shock and exhaustion were getting to her; her head pounded, her eyes blurry with migraine-halos. But she forced herself to focus, to stare, to study. The lines of force, the sigils and script around the circled triangle — then what Frank had said sunk in, the explanation outside, electricity and magic…and…and…_no_.

"Physical focus," she whispered. "For summoning. The control part's gone. Died when we cracked the tile. It's all focused and grounded on whoever's inside. Remove the focus target, it goes nuclear." Her gaze jerked up to the fall of energy, that Duveé was holding off.

"Summoning _what?"_ Joshua said. "Samedi? That makes no sense!"

"Hurry," Duveé said.

"I'll stay," Rafe said quietly.

"Shut up, Rafe," Joshua snapped. "We need a volunteer for martyr, we'll ask. Hawk, can we substitute?"

Rafe stretched a finger across one of the junctures, where the circle and triangle touched, towards her — risky, but Kris didn't care. She touched his fingertip with her own, even as she forced herself back to studying, conscious of Duveé standing there, the deadly weight of energy above them. But then she realized what Joshua wanted to do, and she met his savage glare with a feral one of her own. "Yeah, we can —"

"_Tag!" _Frank's panicked yell.

"The two of you need to stop," Thatcher said, between gasps.

Shuddering, sweating, pale, Thatcher was on his knees, but held a gun, aimed at Joshua. Caught — both her and Joshua's hands were in the open and nowhere near their weapons.

"That was interesting," Thatcher said, "what your Empath did. Interesting. Now, let's make it more so." He lowered the gun, towards Rafe's face. "I have the distinct advantage of having cast all this, after all."

"Y'know," Kris forced a bored, Southern Cal drawl despite her pounding heart and blurring vision, "you serial killers are all alike, small balls and stupid plans to get everyone so scared of you, y'know?" Thatcher only smiled, but his attention was now on her; out of the corner of her eye, Kris could see Joshua's index finger tapping, a pattern she recognized. She kept on, praying Thatcher wouldn't notice… "Like you're really just another criminal for the cops to fill out paperwork on, no big deal, and with all the other shit in the world right now, no one's got time for an old, fat fart —"

Behind Thatcher, Frank had moved in front of his brother; Kris recognized Frank's hard expression — then saw his hands moving…

"If you're trying to make me angry, dear," Thatcher said, "it won't work."

Simultaneous: a searing flash of fire raged into Thatcher's face —

— and a gunshot.

Thatcher's gun dropped as he beat at the fire, screaming, then he was on the ground, convulsing, then stilled, eyes glazed over, blood pouring from the back of his head. Joshua collapsed forward, caught himself before he hit the circle. Stunned, Kris lifted her gaze.

Frank was lowering the .45.

Before anything registered past the sudden babbling panic in her head, Duveé stepped into the circled triangle, to stand over Rafe. "Get out, young one," Duveé said to Rafe. "Get out now."

"_Joshua!"_

Both Kris and Joshua startled around, as Rafe scrabbled out of the focus — Alma, and two others. "Alma! Don't let anyone through this — Rafe…" Joshua grabbed Rafe, "what do you have? Anything?"

Gulping air, Rafe was on his hands and knees. "Nothin'. They shot me up — junk, I think."

"Can you carry?"

Shaking his head, Rafe swayed, caught himself. He slanted a look at Kris. "You sounded just like Vão, y'know that?"

"_I cannot hold much longer," _Duveé said.

"Get out." Joshua shoved Rafe, and Rafe staggered. "Over there, to her. Alma, get him out of here, _now_. And _you two,_ over here — _one_ of you cross, be ready, it bites hard —"

"Josh," Kris said, "Nathaniel's _dead."_

"Dead people don't bleed," Joshua snapped. "Get over with Frank and Joe." Joshua met her gaze. "Life's Warding, Blade. _Move it, people_ — this place is going to blow." Together with one of Alma's people, Joshua hauled Nathaniel out of the circle, onto their stretcher. "Get out, now. We'll follow."

Joshua dodged back into the circle, staggering as the energy hit him again, landed near her. "Hawk, can you knock him out?" At her head shake, he swore. "Okay. We'll deal. Joe —" Joshua gripped Joe's good hand, "— I'm sorry, _chè, _we don't have time for gentle. This is going to hurt. Frank, get his head and chest, I'll get his legs. Move."

They'd cleared the crates and made it to the inner door when there was a _noise…_

Joshua dropped, grabbing Frank and yanking him down, both of them covering Joe. Kris collapsed over Joshua and threw herself wide open, unrestricted, freely given, feeding Joshua's Gift with everything she had left and beyond, felt Joshua doing the same, the combined shield flashing out —

The circle exploded.

_Blood for blood, life for life— _it rang through her, keying her life into the shield. Joshua had her hand in a final death-grip, as the shockwave hit their shield, buckling it under the fire-storm of wood-shrapnel. Her life didn't matter; she'd never been afraid of dying, death never mattered — but Frank, Joe…her big brothers…

Another hand touched hers and Joshua's, damp and slick with blood.

There was light.

The noise settled into silence, save for the occasional crack of a falling crate. Kris slid off Joshua and fell to the splintered ground; Joshua pushed himself up, supporting himself on his arms. The lights were too bright, blinding — then Kris realized she wasn't looking at the ceiling, not anymore. Not mostly, anyway.

Frank bent over his brother, one arm across Joe's chest, gripping his shoulder. "We're still alive?" Frank murmured.

Kris inhaled on a sudden laugh. Frank reached across Joe to snag her hand in a tight, shaking clasp.

Joe, though, was staring past her, his eyes wide and unfocused.

"Frank, Joe," Joshua rasped, _"_if you two _ever_ feed me that crap about being useless again, I swear to whatever God exists, I will devote the rest of my life to hunting you down just to make you eat Hawk's cooking."He raised his head. "_Nainaine?"_

"Here. " The crunch of glass and wood. "Sweet Jesus, children, just level the entire building next time."

Kris twisted to look. The thick glass of the office space had blown out, and shattered glass was everywhere. Crates were nothing but splinters; the iron barrels scattered, tipped, cracked open, spilling liquid. Two charred, curled lumps lay in the center of the wreckage…

Of Duveé, there was no sign.

Alma called something back through the outer door, came into the space, stepping over splintered wood. "We need to clear fast before the police arrive." Alma knelt, laid hands on Joe's forehead and chest. "Even New Orleans police will not ignore _that _explosion_ —_ _easy,_ Joe, you'll do yourself more injury."

"There's still people there." Joe struggled, as if to get up. "They're right there — they're watching…"

"Joe," Frank said, his face damp, streaked, "you're hallucinating."

"_They're right there!"_

"_Frank,"_ Joshua said. "Where, Joe?"

Shivering, panting, Joe collapsed. "Barrels. Skinny Black kid. Torn jeans. A Bulls shirt." His breath caught. "Woman next to him, maybe 20, blue blouse, cornrows. Young girl, pink dress —"

Joshua pushed to his feet, staggered over towards the barrels, stopped, staring down. He didn't need to say anything. From her angle, Kris could just barely see the top edge of one of the barrels.

And part of what had spilled out of it.

"They won't bother us, Joe. They're beyond all that." Joshua bowed his head. "They're beyond everything, now."

##

Later, much later.

Frank sat bowed over his knees in this so-called hospital's waiting area. Alone. They wouldn't let him stay with Joe in whatever passed for surgery with these people. Kris and Joshua had both been taken off, though Frank had heard Mar giving Kris a stern Navajo-laced lecture that hadn't _quite_ been yelling. People had hovered over Frank at first, but he'd refused everything, bandages, food, coffee, until they left him alone. He wasn't going to move. He wasn't going anywhere. Not until he heard. Not until they let him back. Not until someone would give him more than a _we're-doing-our-best._

It was either sit here and wait, or call Dad. That, he wasn't ready for.

"You turning into a statue out here won't help," someone said, to his left.

Frank looked up. Mar, Kris's adoptive mother. Just the sight of her familiar, weathered face — serene and calm, just as she'd been in Bayport — started him trembling from relief and exhaustion. He wanted to break down. He wanted to weep. He only forced himself to still.

"You collapsing from shock and lack of food won't help Joe, either." Mar sat beside Frank, pressed a granola bar into his hands. "Eat. Please."

She was going to push until Frank obeyed, that was obvious. In some ways, Mar had been his and Joe's foster-mother as much as she was Kris's. Frank didn't think he'd be hungry, but just one bite — then he was finishing it off, and swallowing a honey-thick cup of tea.

"Kris is out cold. She tore the set on her shoulder, and that stab on top of it, plus the burns, plus overuse shock — they've drugged her down so she'll stay in bed." Mar sighed. "Couldn't you and Joe have taught her a little common sense, at least?"

Frank couldn't look at her. His and Joe's little tagalong. Kris had gotten stabbed because Frank hadn't moved fast enough — he'd been right there…he hadn't meant for her to…

"Good, you got him to eat." Joshua limped towards them; he looked haggard, weary. "I thought I'd have to force him, and I've already had three lectures on overusing Gift." Joshua collapsed to the couch beside Frank.

"The others?" Frank wasn't going to ask about Joe. Not yet.

"Rafe — those bastards shot him up on heroin. How he kept his shields…" Joshua shook his head. "Vão's drugged into near-coma. They're keeping him that way until his brain gets the message that he's not physically hurt. And Nathaniel's still in surgery." A long, tired sigh. "Anything past 'cripple' will be a victory, from what I saw."

"Surgery," Frank echoed, bitterly. "Right." Mar's arm was around his shoulders, a hug that nearly broke his control.

Joshua sighed again. _"Chè, _believe it or not, we have real doctors."

"The Voodoo culture here," Mar said. "They're more accepting of the Gifts because of that. NOLA Center works openly with the local hospitals. And they're lucky, they've got two major Heal Gifts with them."

"Alma called in favors," Joshua said. "She's on Joe, along with a surgeon from Ochsner. Whatever doesn't respond to her Healing, she'll damn well slap it upside the head until it does."

"Hardy?" A tired-looking woman in blue scrubs.

Frank would've stood; Mar's firm hand on his shoulder kept him in place.

"Alma moved on to Nathaniel," the woman said to Joshua. "She and Shannon —"

"Justine," Joshua said, "just get to it. Please."

Frank's hands clenched. He wasn't going to lose control. Not now. Not here. For a doctor to try to avoid a topic…

"He's stable," the woman said. "Both feet and legs in casts. They sawed through the Achilles tendons and ruined the muscles. We got the tendons re-attached, but he's not allowed any weight on them for at least six weeks. At this point, we don't know if he'll walk. Second degree acid burns over most of his chest and back. No need for skin grafts, yet. Left forearm broken, and his hand looks like it was pounded with a hammer. Alma set the hand bones, but there's too much muscle damage to tell if it'll heal straight. Bruising and abrasions around the throat — strangled with rope. Four broken ribs. Deep lacerations on his back and chest. Extensive bruising, consistent with getting beaten by a blunt object —"

It went on. Frank bowed his head, feeling Mar's grip around his shoulders tighten and Joshua add his own arm to the support.

The doctor wound down. "All that, and he was still able to —" Joshua broke off. "Your brother's one tough son of a bitch."

"I have to call Dad." Frank's vision blurred. He started to get to his feet, wavered; Joshua caught him.

"No," Mar said firmly. "I'll call Fenton. Most of this —" She stopped, looked away. "Joshua, you and I need to talk. Frank," she paused again, took a long breath, "go see your brother. I'll be there in a bit."

Relief nearly collapsed Frank back to the couch. He wouldn't be breaking the news to his dad. He wouldn't have to deal with his dad right now.

"Want someone with you?" Joshua said.

Frank shook his head, followed the doctor.

"He's drugged pretty heavy," the doctor said, at the door of the room. "But he should be awake."

Taking a deep breath, Frank tried to still his face, then stepped into the room. Joe was curled on his right side, his back to the door, a sprawl that looked almost normal except for the casts, bandages, IV and transfusion lines, monitor wires, and catheter tube. "Joe…?"

Joe stirred, blinked as if he was having trouble focusing. For a long, silent moment, the brothers only looked at each other. Frank halted at the end of the bed, not knowing what to say or do, not knowing what would help, or even if anything _could_ help…

"We keep getting into these situations," Joe murmured.

It shook a laugh from Frank. "It's a gift." Carefully, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and just as carefully, gathered his brother up against his shoulder.

Then, only then, both brothers broke down and wept.


	20. Aftermath

Kris had been allowed up the next day; she'd refused to take any more meds until they _let_ her up. It was just her shoulder and arm. The shoulder and muscle were tightly bandaged and in a cast. The burns, she could deal with. She could heal just as well on her feet as she would lying in a bed. Finally, the nurse and doctor had thrown up their hands and given in. One of the floor assistants helped her wash and clean up, then get into her jeans and an oversized tie-dyed _dashiki_ — Joshua had gleefully taken advantage of her cast, meds, and not being able to wear her own shirts to buy her clothing to _his _taste, though Kris had a suspicion that Alma had stopped him from the more outlandish color schemes.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed and getting her breath back when Joshua poked his head through the door, then came in, grinning. "I heard you yelling at the docs all the way down the hall. Ready to blow this joint and go back to _Nainaine's?"_

"If it means getting something other than the crap they call food here_,_ yeah." Kris eyed him. Joshua wasn't in his usual colors — he was distinctly dressed-down: camos, a plain black t-shirt, no beads in his short dreads. Something was up.

"Alma's looking forward to fattening us both up. C'mon, partner."

She didn't move. "Joe."

Head bowed, Joshua stopped. "All the usual M.O., except he's still alive. They don't know if he's going to walk again." Joshua sighed. "C'mon. We'll check on him. He was asking about you last night."

But no sooner had they cleared the door than Kris was ambushed. _"Mierda, cielito, estoy alegre verle."_ Rafe pulled her into a tight, shaking hug, though mindful of the cast. Kris resisted briefly, then let him pull her against his chest and let herself relax a little, Rafe's chin resting on top of her head and his arms around her.

"They let you go this soon?" Joshua said.

"No," Rafe's voice thrummed through his chest, "but I told 'em where to shove it. They don't need me wastin' bed space. And Vão…" Rafe stopped, breathed out. "They needed help getting shields up on his room. They're not letting anyone back there." Another sigh. "Except his grandma. She and his dad came in this morning."

"I've met her," Kris said. "Her side's where his Gift comes from."

Rafe rocked back and forth, his hug tightening. "Nate…he's critical. His family's flying in this afternoon. As for that bitch he calls his wife —" Rafe cut himself off. His breathing harshened, his voice thick. "I couldn't do jack. They had me — and all I could do — and now —"

"Rafe," Joshua said, "they shot you with heroin. It's a Gift-killer." Rafe was shaking his head; Joshua shoved his shoulder. "Hey. Don't. You even managing shields on that—"

"But that kid —"

"He's not that much younger than you, Rafe. And they didn't shoot him up."

"They were finishin' Nate," Rafe whispered, rocking. "They were usin' him to break my shields. They were lettin' me know it. Then they dragged _him_ in, and it started all over again. I couldn't — I didn't want…

"Then that's between you and Joe, _chè_. Work it out with him." Joshua almost smiled. "Try not to blow up the Center doing it."

"He's a musician," Kris said, and Rafe rolled his eyes. "When he and Frank aren't playing detective, anyway. Teach him guitar or something."

"After yesterday," Joshua murmured, "you can't call it playing." Then he gave Kris the bare start of another grin. "Do what she says, Rafe, or I'll sic her on you, just like I did to Vão yesterday."

Kris lifted her head. Rafe stopped rocking. "What?"

"Right in the middle of Bourbon Street," Joshua said. "Big bad cocky rock star Vão decided to stand right in the middle of business like a stupid _oh-shoot-me-now_ target, and this little white chick ripped him a new one. Real loud, right in the middle of the afternoon parade. You should've seen the crowd they got. I didn't even think she knew half those words." Kris's face was red-hot, and Joshua was now grinning hugely. "It was _epic."_

Rafe burst into laughter, laughter that choked off into a sob as he hugged Kris even tighter.

"Now I'm getting this epic chick home so she can rest," Joshua said. "Go get horizontal for a while, Rafe. You need it, even if you don't want to admit it."

Rafe nodded, released her, but Kris pulled him back into a brief hug of her own, as he breathed something in rapid Spanish into her hair. Then Joshua steered Kris away, back through the Center.

"Josh…" Kris said, then, when he cocked his head at her, "…thanks."

Another bare grin. "Anytime, _chè._ Anytime."

They hit the doors through the front ward — and yelling echoed through the area, increasing exponentially as Kris and Joshua came through the nurses' area, loud enough to drown out the gods-awful religious radio station the nurses were playing. It was obvious who: Fenton Hardy stood over Frank, who was sitting on a bench, head in his hands.

"You went after them? By _yourselves?!_ And you didn't even think of calling the cops? _ What kind of idiots are you?_ What have I been teaching you all these years?"

"Dad, we _tried!"_

"You don't go after armed and dangerous without backup. You know that! Then you let Joe take them on alone — you abandoned him, he got caught and you're _supposed_ to be the oldest, you're _supposed_ to be more responsible —" Fenton caught sight of Joshua and Kris, cut himself off.

"Their dad, I take it," Joshua said, under his breath.

"Mr. Hardy," Kris said. Frank wiped at his face, not looking at any of them, his bearing thoroughly cowed, beaten.

"Joshua Thomas, sir." Joshua stood at loose attention; he looked every inch former military. "Special Ops and Recon. On assignment down here, after those killers."

Let Fenton assume what he would from that. Kris bit her lip; the stricken grief and shame on Frank's face hurt. But she held herself quiet, for the moment.

Fenton had turned on her. "How much of this did you know about?"

"_She,"_ Joshua said, "was in the ER, here. Broken shoulder and second degree burns. She got attacked by the killers on the street, right before it all went down."

Fenton shut his mouth. "Sorry," he said, to Kris. He gave Frank another glare.

"Mr. Hardy, you're making a huge mistake," Joshua said. "You'll regret it all your life, if you do. If you continue."

Fenton turned back, all the rage turning —

"Your sons did go to the cops." Joshua's voice was calm, edged. "Exactly what I told them to do. They ran straight into something no one expected — that New Orleans cops don't give a crap about anything unless someone tosses a body through their window. And even then, they only gripe about the mess."

Arms crossed, Fenton's posture was that of stiff patience, his back turned on his son.

"They tried to contact me," Joshua said. "But there was a foul-up. The message didn't get me until too late. They knew the band had been grabbed. From what I understood, they were just going to scout a possible lead."

Frank didn't look up. Fenton turned a brief glare back at him, then faced Joshua again. "That doesn't excuse him —"

"As to what happened after that," Joshua cut him off, "I don't care — except for the important part. Your son's alive. Both of them. And three people who would be dead right now — dead by _torture_ — are still alive, because _both _your sons had the guts to make hard choices and follow through."

Now Fenton was silent.

"Some mistakes carry their own punishment," Joshua went on, quieter. "What your sons are going through right now is far harder than anything _you_ can abuse them with. Right now, they need a father who loves them. Not one who'll continue the beat-down the killers started."

His expression hard to read, Fenton looked back again at Frank.

"If you want the whole story," Joshua said. "I can tell you. And I can tell it more coherently and in more detail than your son can manage right now." He gave Kris a _look_ and let Fenton lead him away, to one of the waiting room areas.

Frank hadn't moved, his head still in his hands. Kris sat down next to him, put her good arm around his shoulders.

"He's playing decoy again," Frank said, half to himself.

"It's what he does," Kris said. "He'll extort a pizza out of you later for it. Double-cheese, with shrimp and pineapple."

A sob of laughter shook him; Frank choked it off, hands clenched.

Kris tightened the hug. "It's okay to laugh. It's okay, big brother."

"Dad's right." It choked off. "I shouldn't have left. I shouldn't have listened to Joe. I should have —"

"If you'd stayed, there'd be five more people dead, including you. You really think that's _better_?"

Frank said nothing.

"Put the blame where it belongs," Kris said. "On the ones that did this. _You didn't do anything wrong."_ She fell silent; her own memories crowded too close, recent and far past. She swallowed them down, lowered her voice, mindful of the cracked-open room door nearby. "And Joe needs you more than ever. Not to be strong. He's going to need you to tell him — to show him — that it's okay to cry, or laugh, or get angry, or be alone. And for someone to keep telling _him_ that it wasn't his fault_,_ until he believes it_._"

His face damp, eyes red, Frank was giving her one of those long, serious looks. "Tagalong," he said softly, "when the_ hell _did you get so much older than me?"

"I don't want to be," Kris whispered. She bowed her head. "I never wanted to be."

The floor assistant came out of Joe's room, nodded at them. Kris let Frank give her a hand up and lead her into the room, but she pulled him to a stop just inside the doorway.

Joe was trying to push himself up in the bed with his good arm while working around the tangle of tubes and monitor lines; he looked exhausted. Thick lines of abrasion, deep bruises, and rope-burn ringed his neck, and his eyes were red, swollen. The TV was on, some morning news show, and the window was open, letting in sun, the morning air and the sounds of the revel outside.

"I want," Joe rasped, "a double-cheeseburger. With fries."

Frank breathed out a laugh; Kris didn't move. "Want company?" she said to Joe. "Or you want to be alone?"

Joe stared. Then he nodded. "Come on in."

"Is there a way to sneak a cheeseburger in?" Frank said to her.

It sounded light enough. She knew better, but played along anyway. "I don't believe you, Joe. You've got Roy and Alma at your beck and call, and you ask for a _cheeseburger?_ You're trying to get me in trouble with Josh, aren't you?"

Joe grinned. "You still look terrible, Tag."

"Better than you," Kris said; he dropped his gaze. "It looks worse than it is. They reset my shoulder, bandaged the rest, then yelled at me for abusing my Gift. Then they got snarked off when I told 'em I wasn't staying. The usual."

"The usual?" Frank leaned against the wall by the window and fixed her with his _overprotective-big-brother-better-not-be-really-hearing-this_ look. "Tell me you're kidding."

Abruptly Kris was tired of playing along. She sank into one of the chairs, emotion and pain tremoring through her voice. "And right now, it all hurts and I just want to go back to Alma's and sleep for a week. Only reason I'm still not doped up is that pain meds kill my shields. And I've got just enough Empathy…no. I'm not going un-shielded here. Period."

That honest, open admission — she saw it hit Joe. His false bravado dropped, and he was staring at her again, biting his lip.

Frank looked from her to Joe and back: Overprotective Big Brother didn't seem to know how to react. "Empathy. Josh said something about Vão in all that…"

She wouldn't look at either of them. "Yeah. The killers tore his shields down." Now she met Joe's gaze. "What they did to you. What they did to Nathaniel — the other guy. Vão went through it, as if it was done to him." She breathed out, tried to calm down. "His body's reacting as if he's got all your stuff and Nathaniel's. The only way they can try to break it is to drug him into coma."

"Dear God," Joe breathed.

"Joe, what did you do yesterday? And don't dodge the question. It was your signature I caught near Vão." Kris had seen it the moment she'd come in the room; Joe's Gift now glowed strong, unleashed, to her mage-sight. Something else had happened, in all that mess.

…oh gods, if Thatcher had figured out Joe was an amp…

"I — I saw…something." Joe glanced towards the room door and swallowed hard. "Something binding him. Red light." His voice was raspy, thick, choked off in intervals as if he was having trouble breathing. "Frank came out. I couldn't — I couldn't let them — so I just threw it. I don't know what. Whatever's inside me. At that light."

That was the shock she'd felt. Kris just looked at him. Waiting for the rest.

"And when you and Josh — it was going to blow." Joe looked near tears. "You were…shielding?" She nodded. "I remembered what you said, about me hooking in. So I — I tried to hook in."

She still said nothing, thinking. There was more to it, she was certain. But she wasn't going to push him. Not now.

"Did I — what I did — I hurt him more." Joe stared at the sheets. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean…I only thought…"

Glaring at her, Frank now stood over his brother. "Back off, Kris. You and Josh beat us in the face with this crap, we got dragged into this, and you dare get on Joe's case? He doesn't have any of your so-called _training _—"

She startled. "Huh? Oh gods — no. _No._ Joe, no, you didn't — Frank, cut me a break, _please._ I'm not tracking too well right now. And I'm sorry, big brother. I didn't mean it like that. You just explained some things, that's all." Kris tentatively touched Joe's shoulder; he reached up with his good hand and grabbed hers in a fierce clasp. "You didn't hurt him. What you did — it saved your life. If Vão did what I think he did."

"Well," Frank said, "that was your usual explanation-that-makes-no-sense."

Joe choked on a laugh; Kris collapsed back in the chair. "Sorry," she said, rubbing at her eyes. "Okay. That light — it was binding Vão's Gift. He's a projective Empath_. _ He can make you feel what he's feeling. You broke the binding —"

"Thatcher," Frank said suddenly.

Kris nodded. "Imagine getting hit with all that,"her gesture took in all of Joe's injuries, "all at once. And Nathaniel's."

Joe lifted his head, his voice savage despite the choked rasp. "So the bastard got payback. _Good."_

A burst of helicopter noise from the TV caught their attention. The news was showing an aerial view of the produce factory. Roof in pieces, one wall gone, structural integrity doubtful. Debris everywhere. The captions flashed the number of bodies so far, the damage done, no clues, no suspects.

"My God." Frank sounded stunned. "We survived _that?"_

"Yeah, because we had help." Kris gave Joe a steady, even stare; he dropped his gaze back to the sheets. "Big brother, if you're able to do all that untrained…"

"Just great," Frank said. "Now I've got to explain to Dad why I'll be digging a bomb shelter in the backyard."

"Well, you are the oldest," Joe said, with a weak grin.

"Um, he only said he's explaining to your dad," Kris said. "He didn't say anything about your aunt."

Whether Thatcher had figured the amp part out or not, he was dead. That was all that counted, now. Anything and everything else could wait.

Joe blinked at her, then looked at his brother; Frank's expression was calm innocence. "Great," Joe muttered. "You're all heart."

Movement at the door startled them: Fenton stood there. Frank looked away, his stance going from Protective Older Brother back to cowed and shamed; Joe kept his gaze down.

It hurt. She didn't want to leave her big brothers like this, not if Fenton was going to continue the verbal beat-down. But Joshua stood behind Fenton and was gesturing her out emphatically.

Kris pushed to her feet, gripped Joe's shoulder. "You want a cheeseburger, I'll brave Josh for you, okay?" She glanced at Frank. "Two of them."

"Extra pickles," Joe rasped.

But before Joshua took her out of the room, Fenton had pulled Frank into a long hug, father to son…and then sat carefully on the edge of the bed to do the same with Joe.

"A cheeseburger," Joshua said, as he and Kris walked out of the Center.

"Don't you dare say no. Don't you _dare._"

"Partner,"Joshua said, "if that's all he wants, I'll gladly get Uncle Roy to barbecue it right there in his room. But his standards are way too low. I'm going to make him and his brother a far better offer."


	21. Rising

Vão sat in a patch of warm sunshine. He'd opened the windows earlier; the sounds and sights of the party below on the street provided the distraction he needed. The doctors had tried to ease him off the drugs, but his muscles still ached, restless and cramping at odd moments. Right now, everything felt tentative, blurred, out-of-focus; Vão was scared to move, scared to _breathe_, for fear of triggering the pain again.

Grandma had been in; they hadn't allowed Papa back at all. Vão was tired of her, Alma, and a single heavily-shielded nurse being his only visitors; he was even more tired of what passed for food here. There were shields on the room, but right beyond them, Vão could still sense a low hum of mental activity: pain, grief, drugged-up minds, drunken revelers…

He shoved up from the bed, staggered as his body tensed against expected pain that didn't happen, and went to stare down through the window.

Another hum of thought, behind him — he turned, then relaxed in relief. Rafe…and Kris.

"Is it okay to come in?" Kris said.

Vão sat on the bed. _"Please."_

They sat on either side of him; the silence stretched, warm, comfortable. He didn't need to say anything. Just them being there was enough.

"You're being moved," Kris said. "We're getting you out of here. Me and Josh've spent the last couple days clearing out Alma's guest room." Vão lifted an eyebrow at her cast; Kris sighed. "Okay. Get picky about it. Josh cleared the room and I got to boss him around, for a change. And _you, _mister,are going to get me, Josh, and Alma in your face for the next week or so until your shields are solid."

"They were solid before." The thought of spending another week in New Orleans did not appeal at all, even if it was with Kris. Vão wanted to go home.

"They were." Quiet, tired, from the door, Joshua, so tightly shielded that Vão felt _nothing_ from him. "Up until you touched that photo. We even saw it, lure and attack. And we got diverted from following up on it. One of the folks here checked you over and caught it. Hey, Vão, you look a lot better."

"Diverted?" Rafe said. "And no one caught it?"

"The bastards were slick about it," Kris said, thick rage in her voice; she paused a moment and Vão _felt_ her clamp it down. "That woman got into your guards. Claire. Mar even pointed her out, remember?"

"She was the one that grabbed me," Vão whispered.

Joshua sighed. "And we didn't check her, because we assumed Mar or the others had. Mar didn't check her, because she'd supposedly been sent from NOLA, and the others from NOLA thought she was from Bay Area." Joshua glanced at Kris. "NOLA's person was ID'd this morning. They found her in one of the barrels."

"_That's_ how," Rafe said. "So that's why —"

"Yeah," Kris said bitterly. "She was right in there, subverting every thing we did."

Vão shoved to his feet. He still felt Claire's touch crawling over him in his nightmares, and the nightmares had been constant, the last few days.

"I have some news, too," Joshua said, watching Vão. "They upgraded Nathaniel to stable and fair this morning. The sets on his hands are holding."

"_Gracias, Dios, por su misericordia,"_ Rafe whispered.

Vão looked away, uncomfortable, sick. The killers had been all over Nathaniel. Claire had made it very clear that Vão would've been next for her…until they'd caught that other, Joe.

Joshua leaned against the wall. "Mar's stepping down as Blade commander. She says she's too old, if Claire got past her. And we're off your tour. If you still have one, that is."

"What?" Simultaneous, from Vão and Rafe. Vão stared. They couldn't. Bay Area wouldn't do that.

"Cy's call. I don't blame him. We screwed up major." Joshua wasn't looking at any of them. "If we've gotten that…that _lazy_, that cocky —" He sighed. "Don't worry. You guys won't be left unguarded. But we need some major shaking up before we trust ourselves again."

"You're taking over," Kris said.

"Yeah." Joshua still wasn't looking at them. "I should be proud. It's what I've been working towards. Instead, it's just another beat-down. Like those bastards really won, after all."

"They didn't," Vão said. "Not if you're stepping up."

"A-effin'-men, _camarada,_" Rafe said.

Joshua didn't answer for a long moment. "Thanks for the vote. Kris, when you're done here, I need you to run interference. Fenton's pulling Frank and Joe home, as soon as he can get a flight. I want to talk to them before he does."

"Sure," Kris said, as Joshua left.

Silence fell in the room. Somewhere below, on the street outside, a jazz band passed by, the trumpets painfully off-key, enough that both Vão and Rafe winced.

"I'd better go," Kris said, pushing from her seat on the bed. "I'll be back after." She wasn't looking at them, either. "Josh's right. It only feels like another beat-down."

"_Caro_," Vão said.

She stopped at the corner of the doorway, leaning on her arm, head bowed.

There was so much he wanted to say, couldn't, aware of Rafe right there. "I thought you were dead," Vão said instead. Low. Tight. Controlled. "They grabbed me. I thought they'd taken you out, that there was no way they could've if you'd still been alive." He stopped, got control of himself; the memory of what had happened in the van nearly broke him again. "I didn't care. Not after that. I wanted them to kill me, too. To just get it over with. Then…then they dragged that guy in. Joe. And he said you were alive. That you were okay."

"He's a horrible singer," Rafe said.

There was one of those pauses they usually had in any conversation with Rafe. Kris looked back over her shoulder; Vão just gave Rafe his best glare.

Rafe only came over, pulled them both into an embrace, and for once, Kris didn't pull away.

The closeness, the touch threatened to overwhelm Vão: it was Rafe and Kris, not…those others. Tension, pain, sudden tears, all in Vão's chest, his voice. "Kris — I _knew_ I had to hang on. Then you tapped in…and then I saw you…"

Now Kris was looking at him. Suddenly she pulled him in, tight and shaking, and Vão returned it, hard.

"I know what you want," she whispered. "I know what you guys want. I can't. I'm not the one who can give it to you."

"Shhh." Vão let her rest against him, his chin on her head. "It's okay. We'll talk, later. Go help Josh." He met Rafe's gaze. "We got time."


	22. Offerings

Another sunny day. Joe was starting to hate them. Frank had been in earlier and opened the windows for him; today was the last day of the Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday, and the party was already in full swing outside, raucous and loud despite the morning. Just another reminder of what Joe had missed and couldn't take part in.

Not that Joe felt like taking part.

He'd been stuck in the hospital bed the whole time. With both legs and his left arm in casts and bandages everywhere else, even hobbling on crutches was impossible. He'd managed to get over to the chair a couple times, with Frank's help, and both times had been a painful, sweating ordeal.

They'd be flying home the day after, the earliest that Dad had been able to get a flight out. How he was going to manage that, Joe had no idea, but for once, he wanted to go home. He'd had enough of everything. He was tired of the food, the stares, the uncertain visitors, the questions from Dad. The last, especially. Neither Joe nor Frank had much chance to talk to Joshua alone, to find out exactly what he'd told Dad; Joe really didn't want Dad to know about some things. It'd been an unspoken agreement between the brothers, to just say nothing and let Dad assume the worst.

That had been the hardest of all.

"Hey, _chè_." Joshua stood just inside the doorway. "Can I come in?"

Joe looked at him. That was another thing. Everyone had taken to asking him if they could come in, if he wanted company, if it was okay to enter, everyone save Dad, the doctors, the nurses. Even Frank had picked up on it, and Joe wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or grateful.

He decided on annoyed, for the moment. "Why does everyone ask me that? Is there something I need to know, here?" He hated the way his voice sounded, raspy, choked, as if he'd been breathing smoke for twenty years: something else broken, something else to remind him.

Joshua cocked his head, but didn't move. He was still in black t-shirt and camo, though the Mardi Gras beads were back in his dreads. "It's your space, _chè_. Your privacy. Even if it is a hospital. You get final say on who can be in it. Granted, the nurses won't listen, but they'll at least toss out anyone else who doesn't."

Silence.

"Sure, come on in," Joe said, after it became apparent that Joshua wasn't moving until he got an answer one way or another.

"Nice box." Joshua nodded at the boom box as he came over, then grinned. "Go figure. We've got the best blues in the world here, we birthed rock and jazz, and all those nurses will listen to is that God-awful gospel station. It's a Satanic plot, I swear."

"Yeah, Rafe said." It confused Joe, why Rafe Hollen had taken to visiting him, then had given him the boom box with tapes. "He thought I was crazy when I said I liked Eric Carmen and Bowie."

"He listens to Bread when he thinks none of us notice. Hit him with that, next time he gets on your case."

It was unexpected; Joe laughed. Everyday, normal, honest chatter, unforced and un-faked: far better than the worried looks and soft talk that Dad and Frank had adopted. Only Kris and Mar had the same un-faked relaxation around him. Joe spent most of Kris's visits bombarding her with questions about what had really happened when she was in Bayport, and Mar's rare ones, crying on her shoulder in a way he couldn't with Dad or Frank.

"You can still laugh," Joshua said. "That's a good sign." He leaned against the nearby wall. "I'm sorry for not coming around more, _chè_. A lot of crap hit the fan. Me and Mar have been dealing with it — I'm taking over her post, when we get back to San Francisco."

Joe had no clue what that meant. "I noticed you were dressed — uh — boring."

Joshua snorted. "This's so your dad'll pay attention to me if he starts up on you or Frank again. I've noticed people listen when a Big Scary Black Man in Camo gets in their face. Believe me, _chè,_ the moment he's gone, I'm back in colors." Joshua fixed him with a look. "And believe me _more_ — you did good. You and Frank. _You didn't do anything wrong._"

The chatter had turned in a way Joe wasn't ready for. "But Dad said…"

Joshua sat on the edge of the bed. "Who are you going to believe — someone who wasn't there? Or a former Special Ops Army Sergeant who was right on the front line with you? Be careful how you answer, or I'll be forced to revise my opinion of your intelligence, no matter what Kris claims."

This was the talk Joe had been dreading, but it wasn't going anything like he'd expected. "But you told us — you told me not to — and I did…" He couldn't get the words out, and hung his head.

"You're determined to shoulder it anyway." Joshua studied him. "Okay, then." Suddenly his voice was cold, hard. "I told you not to scout the enemy, Hardy. Why did you disobey orders?"

It was a verbal slap, hard and expected. Joe's gut clenched. "I thought—"

"_Look me in the face when you're talking to me, boy."_

Defiance curled up from somewhere. Joe raised his head. "You don't have any right to give me orders."

"Stop dodging the question."

"_Stop ordering me around!"_ The anger ripped painfully through his throat; Joe caught himself, lowered his voice. "You wanted to waste time. We knew where Thatcher might be. We were just going to —"

"_We?"_

"_I,"_ Joe snapped. "Frank tried to stop me. _But I went._ It was my decision. I'm not going to wait around and let someone die. We were going to case the place and call you if we found them. That was _all."_

"Tell the truth. You wanted to play hero."

"I wanted to _run."_

"But you didn't."

"_Thatcher would've moved them if I had!" _ It rang through the room.

The silence settled.

"Y'know, _chè," _Joshua said, back to casual, calm, conversational, "how about using that anger when your dad gets on your case, hmmm? I really do hate dressing this way."

Reality had taken another skid. Caught, Joe just stared.

"And _that,"_ Joshua continued, "sounded like the Joe Hardy who got in my face about worshiping a skeleton and who had the guts to choose to play bait against a blood-mage. I'd wondered what happened to him."

Joe struggled with it, gulping air.

"Now…" Joshua leaned forward, thumped Joe's chest, "…hold onto it, _chè_. Right here, for when you need it. _Don't let anyone take it from you again._ Deal?"

Eyes burning, Joe nodded.

Joshua pushed up from the bed, went to stare out the window. "You've just confirmed my decision, by the way. I've got an offer for you."

"You want me in the Association."

There was another pause.

"Not like I have a choice," Joe said. "Either I do, or you're going to erase me and Frank's minds so you can stay top secret. Or you're going to hound us with men in black until —"

Joshua burst out laughing, collapsed into one of the orange pleather chairs. "Oh…God…_God…_you were doing so good, up 'til then, _chè_. No, no, no. Just…no." Joshua got control, but his mouth was still twitching. "Wait 'til I tell Kris what you said. Men in black. Jesus. You'll never live it down." The twitch went to full grin. "I could dress up in a bad suit and lurk around your house, if you really want."

Joe shifted. "Kris said you guys were secret."

"We are, but not like that," Joshua said. "Look…what've you told your dad about what happened? Don't worry about him overhearing you. I've got a silence slapped on the room."

"Nothing." Joe looked away. "We've just been letting him assume.""

Joshua was back to not looking at him. "Why?"

"We didn't know what you'd told him." Joe breathed out, long, tired. "He wouldn't believe us anyway. And I…I just didn't. I don't want to."

"Good enough," Joshua said. "So. Back to my real offer. Yes, I'd like you…and your brother…to join us. Not just the Association. The Blades."

Silence, complete and total.

"Think about it," Joshua said. "Don't give me an answer right now. I'll sweeten the deal. We've got a couple other ex-military and a current FBI agent doing some of our training. And SFSU has the best criminology program in the country right now. Believe me, after what happened, I'll strong-arm the Association into giving you and Frank free rides."

"But Frank's not —" Joe flushed, shut his mouth.

"So? I told you. I'm taking over Mar's post. She was the Blade commander for the western US. This situation was screwed up royally." Joshua stopped, sighed. "We need shaking up. We need to change. To my mind, that means recruiting people like your brother. And you."

Joe looked down. "They don't even know if I'm going to walk again."

"I'll say it again. So? And no matter what, I'll still force 'em around on the free ride. Mar will, too — believe me, I'm bad enough, but when _Mar_ gets pissed off, folks do what she says just to shut her up."

That startled a laugh from Joe.

"You know what I'm talking about," Joshua said, grinning. "Anyway, you want another school, we can deal. Personally, I think it'd do you a world of good to get out of Bayport." Joshua leaned forward, fixed Joe with a look. "You did right. You saw trouble. You did what you could to stop it. You put yourself in the line of fire to save total strangers that you had no reason to help. That's not just a Blade, Joe. That's _anyone_ who tries to make the world a better place."

"But I —" Joe looked away. "It was an accident. I didn't want to get caught."

"No one sane would, _chè_," Joshua said. "Some of it was by accident, yeah. But…if you'd known ahead of time what would happen — every single last bit of it and the only way to save those guys was to do exactly what you did, and you couldn't change any of the consequences — would you, still? Don't give me an answer. Just think about it."

Joe didn't say anything for a long moment. Outside was brilliant sunshine, sounds of the Mardi Gras revel, god-awful religious music playing from the nurses' station. He saw Joshua look towards the room door and shake his head at someone outside. "What…?"

"Kris is running interference. She's keeping your brother and dad away until I'm done and you're ready." He settled back in the chair, his gaze on the window.

"Yeah." Something in Joe's chest loosened. He wiped his eyes with his good hand. "I would."

Joshua nodded. Silence for a moment. "Advice," he said finally, "if it's okay." He waited for Joe's nod, then lifted his shirt.

The front of his chest was marked in wrinkled, waxy skin and scars.

"I was 13," Joshua said. Quiet. Calm. "The football squad at school decided to beat up the little nigger faggot. They went overboard. And no one believed me. That's from the lighters, the butane." He pulled his shirt down.

Joe said nothing.

"I was lucky," Joshua said. "I lived. I had help. Alma and Roy took me in — Mama didn't want a faggot in her house." Joshua fell silent, finally sighed. "Point is, you're not alone. If you need to talk, I'll listen. Kris will. More — your brother, your dad. They love you — they're scared for you. Don't push them away, Joe. You don't need to tell anyone anything. Be alone when you need it, but don't shove people away, because that's what those bastards wanted. To kill you, to kill your soul. And our souls need people we love." Joshua grinned again. "Listen to me. I'll let you alone. You want Kris to loose the hounds in here, or you need time alone?"

Joe was silent for another moment. "I'm good. Bring it on."

Joshua pushed to his feet. "Like I told your brother…you're one tough son of a bitch. Just remember it's okay to be weak. I'll be back later."


	23. Bayport

_Late March 1978: Bayport, MA_

The casts had finally come off, to Joe's relief. He'd been hobbling around on crutches for the last week, stretching and getting re-adjusted to walking and to using his arm and hand again. He'd managed most of today so far, but it'd been painful, tentative, sore, and limping; the specialists in Boston had warned him not to get optimistic. They'd wanted to put him in a wheelchair, but Joe wasn't having it. Right now, just being able to use the shower on his own — without the home-nurse's help and a ton of plastic wrap protecting the casts — had been unexpected pleasure.

The ordeal hadn't ended. At first, it'd been a relief to get home; Joe had broken down crying at the sight of the house. But all his friends — to them, Joe had been through something _interesting_, mysterious and weird: Mardi Gras, voodoo, serial killers. Their interest turned uncomfortably silent when Joe wouldn't talk about it…and then confused and offended when Frank had backed Joe up and made them back off. Aunt Gertrude had adopted the same hushed, gentle tones Dad used, especially after she'd caught sight of Joe's back when Frank had been helping him change shirts and bandages. And Dad…

…gentle talk about Joe changing his plans, that maybe being a detective wouldn't suit, to consider something less strenuous, more suited to his abilities now, less _dangerous._ As if Dad had any ideas on what Joe _would_ do now. The only other thing Joe had thought about had _maybe_ been music…and now, between his ruined voice and shattered hand…

Then there were the nightmares, the night terrors, the flashbacks that left him sweating and shaking. Joe refused all medications, instead tried to just deal with it, to pretend nothing was wrong. He was tired of the arguments, the looks, the whispers.

A packet had arrived in the mail that morning: catalogs and application forms for SFSU, with letters from Joshua and Mar saying only to let them know if Frank and Joe chose other schools. When Dad had gone to pay the last tuition bill from Bayport Community, he'd been informed the bill had already been paid. Dad had been giving his sons odd, uncertain stares since.

"Hey."

Joe had been dozing on the couch. He startled awake to see Frank standing over him.

"Come on," Frank said. He was wearing his wetsuit. "We're getting out of here." With that, Frank bullied him up off the couch and to the van. Joe caught sight of Frank's surfboard in the back and scowled, but Frank said nothing, jerking the van into drive and away from the house as if he had a personal vendetta against the building.

But when Frank pulled into the gravel parking lot of one of the shore-points, Joe'd had enough. "You're going to _surf?" _The day was overcast, a typical chilly March day, maybe in the low 50s. The water would be even colder.

Frank only got out, pulled his board and towels from the back, then yanked the passenger side door open. Waiting.

It was obvious that Frank was going to stand there until Joe got out. "I want to know what happened to my brother," Joe positioned the crutches and slid out, "and who this monster is that's replaced him."

"I'm sick of listening to Dad," Frank said, and slammed the van door closed.

The gravel was uncertain, but attempting to walk on sand, even with the help of the crutches, was an ordeal. Joe only grit his teeth and followed Frank out — Frank had stopped about twenty yards out on the beach, tossed his surfboard and the towels a few feet away, and stood scowling, waiting for Joe to catch up.

"You could tell me what's going on," Joe rasped.

Frank nodded at the crutches. "Can you stand without those?"

An odd question. Joe eyed his brother, then, in answer, tossed the crutches over by Frank's surfboard. Frank nodded…

…then attacked.

Not full force, not full speed, but enough to surprise Joe into missing the block and follow-up turn. Frank swept Joe's legs out from under him, dumping him to the sand, but backed off and waited as Joe struggled back to his feet — and this time, Joe got his balance and stance set before his brother attacked again.

Again. And again. Frank stayed on the attack, letting Joe stand and defend: beginner's karate _kata_, simple and basic — strike, block, turn, everything half-speed, half-force. Even then, it was hard for Joe to keep up, hard to remember the sequence and let his body relax into the moves, even when Frank started murmuring the count and sequence under his breath. Everything had tensed up, and his balance was non-existent, but Joe kept at it, doing his damnedest to knock his brother into the sand, but Frank dumped him again and again, and finally Joe could not get up, could only stay sprawled on the sand, panting.

"Yield," Joe managed, from clenched teeth.

Frank snagged Joe's crutches up from the sand, came back over and dropped them by Joe's side. "You're going to have to get better than that," Frank said, as he kicked off his sneakers. "Or Mar's going to have both our hides."

Mar had taught karate at the Y when she and Kris had lived in Bayport. "You're talking like you've decided already."

No answer. Frank grabbed his surfboard and headed towards the water.

Joe managed to roll to his side, started to reach for his crutches, then struggled up to sit instead. Despite the chilly day, he was sweating, every muscle aching, his legs and left arm sore and hurting. Joe watched the ocean for a while. His brother wasn't surfing; the water was too choppy, the waves only swells. Frank had stopped a ways out, just past the breakers, to sit straddled on his board, watching the horizon.

Joe breathed out, long, tired, his hands flat against the sand, letting his exhaustion and the surf's rhythm carry him into meditative state. Then, on impulse, he breathed into a basic magic exercise that Kris had shown him while he'd been in the hospital, something to help keep him distracted from the pain and boredom of hospital routine: breathe, focus…center, ground, _reach_.

The entire beach _thrummed_. Caught between sand, water, sky, Joe let himself go, pulling the rhythm and sound into himself, one slow breath at a time…

Presence trembled nearby, breaking his concentration. Joe blinked up; his vision had an odd golden haze. The sun was much lower, to the west. Frank stood toweling his hair dry.

"Better damp that," Frank said. "I don't want someone finding religion out here because they spot you."

Joe blinked again. His hand was surrounded by a faint gold glow. He closed his eyes, imagined the energy draining back into the sand.

"Better. Let's get out of here before Dad decides I've committed fratricide and calls out the search hounds." Frank helped Joe stand — Joe's muscles had stiffened from sitting so long, and he clenched his jaw against the rush of feeling and pain — and handed him the crutches. "C'mon."

"Frank."

Frank stopped, his back to his brother. "I'm sick of Dad. I'm sick of hearing how he talks to you. And how he talks to me. I'm still to blame. I'm the one who left you. I'm the one who ran."

"_No!"_

"_Tell that to Dad." _Fierce, angry. "So if they're offering me a place to go where I don't have to listen to it day in and day out, then yeah. I'm taking it."

"Is that why you did that?" Joe nodded at the sand, scuffed and trampled from the _kata_ session. "Because you're mad at me?"

Frank's gaze was steady. "Mar's suggestion. I called her last night. I figured falling on sand would be better than the backyard. And you know if we'd done that at home, Aunt Gertrude'd turn the hose on us."

"At least," Joe said, with a slight grin.

Frank didn't return it, only helped Joe maneuver through the sand and back to the van. Uncomfortable, uncertain, painful silence stretched through the drive home, until they pulled into the driveway. Then, as Frank slid out of the van, "No. I'm not mad at you." So quiet, Joe barely heard it.

Joe struggled out, caught up before Frank reached the house. "Good. Because I'm not mad at _you."_

Frank turned.

Joe swallowed hard; his gut clenched. Another talk that he'd been dreading. "Frank — I —" Joe stopped, closed his eyes. Remembered terror trembled under his voice. "Thatcher took me down — something magic. _I couldn't move._ I was praying you'd stay down. That you'd run. If they'd caught you…you'd be dead. They'd've been finding our bodies in those barrels." Joe brought his left hand, twisted and aching, between their faces. "You really think I'd've wanted to watch them do _this_ to _you?"_

Frank looked away.

Now Joe gripped Frank's shoulder, brother to brother. "Brother…_you didn't leave me._ You went to get help to _save_ me." He felt his mouth quirk. "Who are you going to believe? Our idiot father who wasn't even there…or your own brother?"

Finally, Frank smiled, if sadly. "When'd you learn how to make speeches?"

"You've been a bad influence. And I'm glad you've decided. Because I already told Joshua yes."

The smile turned into a laugh. Frank led the way up the front walk, holding the screen door open for Joe.

Joe stopped him on the threshold. "Team?"

His brother returned the shoulder-grip. "Team."


End file.
